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O’ER MOOR AND FEN. 














- 
































































































O’ER MOOR AND FEN 


| | 0DeI - 


B v 

CHARLOTTE WALSINGHAM, 

AUTHOR OF “ANNETTE, OR THE CHRONICLES OF BELLEVUE." 


“O’er moor and fen, 

O'er crag and torrent till 
The night is gone.” 





PHILADELPHIA: 

CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 

624, 626 & 628 Market Street. 

1876. 

T 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by 
CLAXTON, REMSEN & HAFFELFINGER, 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 




^ 

. J- PAGAN & BON, 

8TERE0TYPER8, PHILAD’ 








Selheimer k Moore, Printers- 
501 Chestnut Street. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK FIRST. 

CHAPTER I. page 

Uncle and Nephew 13 

CHAPTER II. 

Beechcroft .21 

CHAPTER III. 

The Abode of Happiness 30 

CHAPTER IV. 

Shadows 37 

CHAPTER V. 

What Does it Mean? . 44 

CHAPTER VI. 

Friends and Cousins S3 

CHAPTER VII. 

A Spider begins to Spin 64 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Science at a FIte 72 

CHAPTER IX. 

Love in an Arbor 84 

CHAPTER X. 

Cross-purposes 93 

CHAPTER XI. 

Midnight Confessions 104 

vii 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XII. PAGB 

My Lady Sleeps 112 

CHAPTER XIII. 

On the Sea . . . 115 


BOOK SECOND. 

CHAPTER I. 

Bob at Home 

. 125 

CHAPTER II. 

Beholding Heaven and Feeling Hell . 

• 134 

CHAPTER III. 

Deep Waters 

. 147 

CHAPTER IV. 

Off with the Old Love 

. 154 

CHAPTER V. 

Tempest-tossed 

. 165 

CHAPTER VI. 

Boiled Mutton with “Caper” Sauce 

• 173 

CHAPTER VII. 

Clandestine Correspondence 

. 182 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Spider at Work 

. 191 

CHAPTER IX. 

A Stevenson to the Rescue 

• 199 

CHAPTER X. 

A Trial of Nerve 

. . 210 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


BOOK THIRD. 

CHAPTER I. page 

In the Convent Garden 221 

CHAPTER II. 

A Joyful Surprise 229 

CHAPTER III. 

Among the Rocks 237 

CHAPTER IV. 

Friendship or Love? 246 

CHAPTER V. 

“ Bobby ” 252 

CHAPTER VI. 

A New Hero 257 

CHAPTER VII. 

Passing the “ Lines ” 266 

CHAPTER VIII. 

What shall He do with Her? 275 

CHAPTER IX. 

A Desperate Remedy 285 

CHAPTER X. 

What They thought of it 293 

CHAPTER XI. 

Lord of Himself . 303 

CHAPTER XII. 

A Dangerous Ride 308 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Madame la Baronne 318 


X 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK FOURTH. 

CHAPTER I. PAGE 

A Return to the Nest 327 

CHAPTER II. 

Elsie's “ Little Frenchman ” 334 

CHAPTER III. 

Firing the Mine 343 

CHAPTER IV. 

In the Web * 352 

CHAPTER V. 

“ O’er Crag and Torrent ” . . . . . . . 357 

CHAPTER VI. 

A Ray of Hope . 363 

CHAPTER VII. 

Science and Religion 369 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Flight 382 

CHAPTER IX. 

Cobwebs Swept away 391 

CHAPTER X. 

The Biter Bitten 399 

CHAPTER XI. 

Sunrise 406 

CHAPTER XII. 

Going out into the World 415 


✓ 




BOOK FIRST. 



II 













O’ER MOOR AND FEN. 


CHAPTER I. 

UNCLE AND NEPHEW. 

“ Oh, my heart is sick with longing, 

Longing to escape from study, 

To the young face fair and ruddy 
To the summer’s day.” 

I T was the month of August, in the year 1869, and the city 
of New York lay baking beneath a fervid summer sun. 
Not a cloud was in the sky to intervene between its rays and 
suffering humanity. Horses fell in their tracks overwhelmed by 
the heat ; dogs lay panting on the sidewalks and in the gut- 
ters, disputing every inch of shade with les gamins , and even 
the bootblacks, that most wiry and untiring portion of the 
human race, had collapsed, and lay curled up on vacant door- 
steps, regardless of all “shine ” save that of the sun. 

The fashionable parts of the city seemed deserted, so profound 
a silence reigned thereabout. No more rolling of handsome 
equipages along the paved streets ; no prancing of fiery horses ; 
no sounds of revelry issuing from the stately mansions, which 
stood sombre and gray, with closed windows and doors, on 
either side of the way. 


13 


14 


o’er moor and fen. 


A foreigner might have supposed Fifth Avenue to be depopu- 
lated, but a New Yorker would at once have exclaimed, “ Every 
one is out of town, and, according to custom, the houses have 
gone into mourning — linen covers within, dust and ashes 
without!” 

In the business portion of the city, however, life was not yet 
extinct, for Wall Street does not recognize either heat or fashion, 
but, like the sun, remains “in town ” all summer; and here, in 
close offices, chafing like caged animals, were to be found unfor- 
tunate wretches, who, bound for life to the “Bulls” and 
“Bears” of the stock market, bore all the miseries of incar- 
ceration during the long hot days, without the air and compara- 
tive freedom of a zoological garden. 

In one of these dens, on the day on which my story opens, 
sat a young man of prepossessing appearance, but who was 
nevertheless one of the most miserable specimens of the class I 
have just mentioned. 

Most young men in his position had homes to return to when 
the business hours were over, and the afternoon trains bore 
them from heat and dust to domestic comfort and social enjoy- 
ment; but Robert Weston had neither home nor parents, and 
his evenings were not much more enjoyable than his days. 

Left an orphan at an early age, he had been adopted by his 
uncle, Mr. John Roderick Von Decker, to whom he was 
indebted for his education, and in fact everything, even to his 
present position in the office in Wall Street. 

Hitherto his summers and holidays had been passed with his 
cousins, but this year, unfortunately, he had displeased his uncle, 
and in consequence had been forbidden the house until such 
time as he should see the error of his ways. 

Business was dull, and many were the impatient glances 
turned upon the clock by those favored ones who looked for a 


o’er moor and FEN. 15 

happy release when the hour-hand indicated four; but Robert, 
or Roy, as he was commonly called, took no note of time, save 
to congratulate himself when the sun left his window, and the 
ghost of a breeze fluttered into the room. 

Coat, vest, collar, cuffs, had one by one been discarded as 
the heat increased, and now, partly baring his breast, he turned 
his face towards the window, pushing back a mass of glossy 
black hair from a broad white forehead, with a careless, easy 
grace, and fell to work industriously filling in an outline sketch 
of a young girl drawn on a piece of waste paper. 

His straight brows were drawn slightly together over an 
aquiline nose, and lashes long and silky as a girl’s shaded a pair 
of large black eyes, as they followed the motion of his fingers, 
whilst from under a slight moustache issued a melancholy 
whistle, a fit accompaniment to his dismal reflections. 

On the opposite side of the room sat Mr. Von Decker, too 
completely absorbed over his books and papers to pay much 
attention to his nephew’s moods, and on whom the lugubrious 
music acted only as a gentle irritant, preventing him from 
lapsing altogether out of life, and becoming one with his 
ledger. 

He was a man of about sixty years of age, hale and well 
preserved in all respects save his hair, which was as white as 
snow, and formed a vivid contrast to his keen bright eyes and 
florid complexion. 

Whilst at his office, he was heart and soul absorbed in his 
business, and nothing short of personal violence ever aroused 
him when engaged with his books, yet, once at home, his cares 
were all forgotten, and no one was lighter-hearted, or more 
enthusiastic in the pursuit of enjoyment than himself. 

Devoted to his wife and his family, which consisted of two 
daughters and three sons, he still found a place in his home and 


i6 . o’er moor and fen. 

heart for his sister’s orphaned boy, and up to the present time, 
Roy had received nothing but unvaried kindness from his 
uncle, nor had he ever heard from him a harsh word. 

The remembrance of his past happiness was ever present 
with the young man, and as he sat idly at his desk this hot 
morning, he could not but deeply deplore the circumstances 
that had caused him to offend so true a friend. 

A vision of Beechcroft, his uncle’s country-seat, and all its 
attendant pleasures, passed before him, and with a sigh of im- 
patience at his weary exile, he dropped his pencil, and, rising, 
crossed the room to replace some books upon their proper 
shelves. 

So accustomed was he to his uncle’s automaton-like silence 
during business hours, that he was sometimes scarcely aware 
of his presence, and it was, therefore, with a start of surprise, 
that he heard his name called, as* he passed his uncle’s desk. 

“Roy!” 

“Sir?” and he paused beside the speaker, who, he now 
noticed, had closed his all-absorbing books, and, leaning back 
in his chair, was thoughtfully regarding his nephew. 

“ Where are you going ? ” said Mr. Von Decker. 

“ To put these books in their places, sir,” replied the young 
man, bewildered at so unusual a demonstration of interest on 
the part of his uncle. 

“Ah, yes; so I see,” replied Mr. Von Decker; “but I was 
not speaking of the present moment. I intended to ask where 
you were going to pass your holidays. You have been at the 
office every day during all this warm weather, and if you have 
made arrangements with your friends to take a trip, I can let 
you go now, at any time, and that lazy boy, Jack, shall supply 
your place. ’ ’ 

“You are very kind, sir,” replied the young man, hastily, 


o’er moor and fen. 


17 

“ but I have no plans for the summer. I do not care to leave 
the city — indeed, I cannot very well afford to. ’ ’ 

“I will advance you any sum you may require,” said his 
uncle, slowly; “or, rather, I will give it to you;” he added, 
“ I owe you as much for exiling you from Beechcroft.” 

“I would rather not increase my obligations, sir,” replied 
the young man, flushing deeply. “I already owe you more 
than I shall ever be able to repay. Let Jack enjoy himself,” 
he added, with a sigh of resignation; “a summer in the city 
will do me no harm — I am not at all delicate,” and he uncon- 
sciously straightened his symmetrical form, and expanded his 
chest as if to corroborate his words. 

His uncle looked at him wistfully. “I wish,” he said, at 
length, “ that you could put all this foolishness in regard to 
Elsie out of your head, and let me send you home again. Why 
will you stand thus in your own light ? Come, act like a rea- 
sonable fellow ; give me your word not to speak on forbidden 
subjects, and go to Beechcroft by the next boat. The girls 
will give you a hearty welcome. ’ * 

“I dare not promise, sir,” replied the young man, with 
feeling ; “I have never yet broken my word, and have no 
desire to begin now. I cannot trust myself to see Elsie if I 
may not tell her that I love her.” 

“Such folly!” said Mr. Von Decker, in a vexed tone. 
“ The idea of a young man of your age, with the world before 
him, bowing down -at the shrine of a child, a baby, not yet 
sixteen years old.” 

“ Sixteen last month, sir,” said Roy, with a smile. 

“Ah, indeed,” said his uncle, sarcastically; “is she really 
so old as that ? No wonder that you think it necessary for her 
to marry immediately. She will be gray-headed, doubtless, if 
she wait much longer. Come, Roy, you must see how pre- 
2* B 


i8 


o’er moor and fen. 


posterous this is. If you must marry, pray find some one else. 
Surely there are plenty of attractive girls in the world, much 
better suited to be your wife than my little Elsie.” 

“ Do you think there are many like her, sir? ” replied Roy, 
pushing towards his uncle a paper-weight, in which was enclosed 
a photograph of a child of twelve or fourteen years of age, with 
small, regular features, delicately pencilled eyebrows, large hazel 
eyes, and a low, broad forehead, shaded by a perfect halo of 
curling golden hair. 

Mr. Von Decker looked with a father’s pride at the pretty 
picture before him, and a tender smile played over his face as 
he replied : 

“No, Roy, no; she is a peerless girl, and quite as beautiful 
now as she gave promise of being when this was taken. She 
ought to marry well, with her many advantages,” he continued, 
musingly. 

“And is it not marrying well to marry the one she loves, 
and who would give his life to secure her happiness ? ’ ’ asked 
the young man, eagerly. 

“ Love is a very good foundation for happiness,” replied Mr. 
Von Decker, with a smile ; “ but, alas, in these degenerate days, 
my boy, money is absolutely necessary for its completion.” 

“ Is my poverty all that you object to in me, sir? ” inquired 
Roy. 

“That is all, Roy,” replied his uncle, kindly, “but it is a 
great deal. Personally, my dear sister’s child is very near my 
heart, and to no one would I so gladly resign my treasure as 
yourself, were you only in a position to support her ; but look 
at it, you are penniless, and Elsie but sixteen years old. Edu- 
cated as she has been, she is utterly unfit to be a poor man’s 
wife, and young as she is, she is incapable of comprehending 
the fact ; did I not, therefore, stand between you two foolish 


o’er moor and fen. 


19 

children, you would exchange vows of everlasting fidelity, and 
end by making each other miserable for life.” 

“ I will be very patient, sir,” continued Roy, in a pleading 
tone. “I will bind her by no promise; only let me tell her 
how dearly I love her, and then I will bid her good-bye until 
such time as you see fit to recall me.” 

Mr. Von Decker answered by a negative shake of the head, 
and resting his head upon his hand, sighed deeply. 

Roy stood silent also for a few moments, and then taking 
from his pocket a small box, he handed it to his uncle, saying : 

“ Then if I may not see her, sir, will you be so kind as to 
give her this ? She has never returned to school since she was 
a very small child without some remembrance from me, and I 
would not have her think that I had forgotten her.” 

“ No, no,” exclaimed his uncle, hastily, “you must not 
waste your money on her, Roy. It is ridiculous. She has 
already more trinkets than she can wear,” and he put his hands 
resolutely behind him, refusing most positively to accept the 
box that his nephew extended to him. 

“It is such a trifle,” said Roy, imploringly ; and opening the 
box he disclosed to view a small gold chain, scarcely thicker 
than a golden thread, but Mr. Von Decker remained motion- 
less, with his eyes fixed upon it, as though seeking some fresh 
pretext for refusing it. 

Another silence ensued, during which the elder gentleman 
reviewed the subject in all its bearings. He felt assured that 
Elsie reciprocated her cousin’s attachment, and had deeply 
resented his prolonged estrangement, being entirely ignorant 
of the cause, and attributing his absence to neglect. Should 
he leave matters as they stood, the chances were that she would 
treat the whole affair as a dream, and fix her heart on some one 
more suited to her ; but at the same time her father felt that 


20 


o’er moor and fen. 


he was practising deception towards her in regard to Roy’s feel- 
ings, and his open nature revolted at it. She would be leaving 
home very soon on her way to school, he argued, and Roy 
promised not to bind her with any engagement. A week of 
“fool’s paradise” could not do any great harm. And then a 
vision of Elsie’s wistful face, should he return home this even- 
ing still companionless, completed his defeat, and, thoroughly 
routed, he gave up his last defence, saying sharply : 

“ There ! Be off with you ! Take it to her yourself.” 

“And the conditions, sir?” inquired the astonished young 
man. 

“ Make a fool of yourself, if you choose,” growled his uncle ; 
“but understand that I will have no formal engagement.” 

“All right, sir,” said Roy, springing with alacrity into his 
clothes. “ I do not wish to bind her for a dozen years to come. 
I only ask to be allowed to love her, and to tell her so.” 

“Go ahead,” said his uncle, smiling at his enthusiasm; 
“ but keep a firm hand on the helm, and a sharp lookout for 
breakers. ’ ’ 

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied the young man, as he hastened 
down the stairs, his heart beating with anticipated happiness. 


o’er moor and fen. 


21 


CHAPTER II. 

BEECHCROFT. 

“ A handsome house to lodge a friend, 

A river at my garden’s end.” 

A LAS ! when and where shall poor humanity be certain of 
finding happiness ? Often our brightest hours are those 
of anticipation of that which in reality falls far short of our 
hopes. Yet it is as true as it is strange, that all mankind still 
believe in the existence of something better than they possess, 
and pass most of their lives in a hopeless pursuit of happiness, 
convinced that they know the secret of its hiding-place. 

Men of all ages have sought it, and left behind them records 
of experience ; but still the world groaneth and travaileth, and 
still the burden of its song is, “ Where may happiness be 
found ? ’ ’ 

Who is there of us that is willing to accept the experience of 
another? None ; no, not one. We must each of us work out 
the problem of life for ourselves. “ Though one rose from the 
dead,” yet would we not believe him. 

“Happiness,” saith the shade of Epicurus, “is to be found 
in pleasure ; not such as arises from sensual gratification or from 
vice, but from the enjoyment of the mind and the sweets of 
virtue.” 

Epicurus, retire. Perchance in Hades thou mayest be listened 
to, but not on this earth wilt thou find many disciples. Thou 
art old fashioned, my friend, retire. 

“Get out of my sunshine,” growled Diogenes to Alexander. 
His happiness was in a tub. 


22 


o’er moor and fen. 


“Happiness?” exclaim those worthy literal gentlemen, 
Messrs. Webster, Walker, Reid, and others. “Is it not in our 
dictionaries? Look under the head of H.” 

Coming down to a still later date, we have Mr. Robert Wes- 
ton’s opinion, as he makes his way to the water’s edge this hot 
August day. 

“Take the Staten Island steamer!” he exclaims, with a 
blissful smile. “Beechcroft is the abode of happiness.” And 
truly, of all these varied opinions, I am most inclined to accept 
his, for certain it is that the dwellers at that scene of fairy 
beauty seemed to bask in perpetual sunshine. 

Most of my readers are probably familiar with the general 
character of Staten Island, and to those who are not, it is suffi- 
cient to state that it is nearly oval shaped, fourteen miles in 
length and eight in breadth. Its shores, along the^bay of New 
York, are dotted with lively villages, and all over the broad 
range of hills that extend from the Narrows across the Island, 
are superb country-seats and neat farm-houses. 

On one of these heights, and commanding a fine view of the 
bay, stood Beechcroft, with its grassy slopes as smooth and even 
as a piece of velvet ; its parterres of flowers, its fountains, its 
miniature lake, looking not unlike a huge mirror in its glassy 
stillness, and over and above all its magnificent woodland. 

About three-quarters of a mile from the shore stood the house* 
a handsome modern residence, replete with all that art, taste, and 
wealth could furnish. 

A “ porte-cochere ,” composed of massive blocks of stone, 
stood before the principal entrance, which opened on a large 
hall, tiled with variegated marbles. On the right of this hall 
stood a long saloon-parlor, furnished as became its grand pro- 
portions. 

The large windows, opening to the ground, were gracefully 


o’er moor and fen. 


23 


draped with rose-colored tapestry and lace curtains. Luxurious 
chairs and low divans abounded. Statues, pictures, and 
various objects of vertu were placed here and there with artistic 
taste, whilst the large mirrors that covered the walls reflected 
and magnified the whole, so as to bewilder a stranger with all 
this repeated grandeur, and lead him to suppose himself in a 
suite of apartments all furnished precisely alike. 

The corresponding space on the left was divided into two 
rooms, one of which was a dining-room and the other a library. 
Around the walls of the former, which were painted a neutral 
tint to form an effective background, were hung the family 
portraits. 

From thence looked down Von Deckers of all ages, from the 
sere and yellow likeness of old Ulric Von Decker, the original 
purchaser of the Staten Island property, to the present proprie- 
tor’s eldest son, Jack, whose fashionable attire and general air 
“ de bon ton ” seemed to be continually putting his worthy an- 
cestor to the blush. 

The room beyond this was, as I have said, the library, and 
here everything was beautifully afo-arranged. All the disorder 
of the household reigned in this apartment. It seemed as 
though the animal spirits of the family had here revenged 
themselves for their continual restraint in other parts of the 
well-ordered establishment. 

Elsie’s piano stood at one end of the room, and beside it 
hung Maude’s guitar, whilst the music for both instruments lay 
around%nd about, upon chairs and tables, in hopeless confusion. 

Then, again, a large easel struck the eye, with a half-finished 
picture thereon, begun by Maude, assisted by Elsie, with some 
master touches here and there by Messrs. Jack, Ned, and Alfred, 
or, as they were better known, “the boys.” 

Maude not un frequently found it necessary to explain the 


24 


O'* ER MOOR AND FEN. 


original design of this picture to visitors, so many were the 
changes it had undergone in the hands of these various artists, 
and she always pathetically alluded, at the same time, to the 
impossibility of prosecuting the study of art in a house where 
there were “ boys,” whilst they, on their part, demanded to know 
whether “ boys ” were to be expected to resist touching a picture 
when left continually upon an easel, with all the paints, pallettes, 
brushes, etc., within easy reach, inviting them constantly to 
their use. 

Jack, of course, smoked and hunted ; he added, therefore, as 
his contribution to this museum, numberless pipes, cigar-cases, 
and smoking-caps, not to speak of breech-loaders and pistols. 

Edwin and Alfred, respectively eight and twelve years of age, 
had a taste for natural history, and supplied to the omnium 
gatherum, aquariums, large black beetles with pins run through 
them, snakes preserved in alcohol, and several other interesting 
subjects for natural science. 

In this curiosity shop, which was indeed their favorite resort, 
were the family assembled on the morning when Roy Weston 
left New York, another victim to the search for happiness, and 
whilst we are awaiting his arrival, I may as well introduce the 
reader personally to the occupants of the room. 

First, there is Maude, the eldest, aged twenty-three, and 
already considered by her younger brethren to be past the 
bloom of her youth. 

As she sits in the recess of the large bow window, sorting 
her Berlin wool, or working with her small deft fingers, remark- 
able roses and lilies, as much unlike nature as possible, she 
might pass for a beautiful woman, with her yellow hair, her 
pale sweet face, and gentle languid motions ; but, one glance 
at bright Elsie as she sits just now at the piano, with a ray of 
sunshine, which has stolen in through the half-closed shutters, 


o’er moor and fen. 


25 


crowning her head with a diadem of light, and Maude ceases 
to be an object of attraction. In fact, she always seemed like a 
pale reflection of her sister, who glowed with life, light, and 
coloring. 

Next in order comes Master Jack. This young gentleman 
has just reached his twenty-first birthday, but he passes for at 
least twenty-five. Of medium height, with eyes not unlike 
Elsie’s, and a quantity of wavy hair two or three shades 
darker than hers, it was his lazy composure on ordinary occa- 
sions, more than his appearance, that gave him the air of a 
much older man. 

Last, though not least, in his own estimation, stands Mr. 
Leonard Strathmore, the heir to all the Strathmores, and pro- 
prietor of Strathmore Park — the owner, also, of a house in 
town, a shooting-box (on the Hudson), a drag, fast horses, and, 
in fact, all the luxuries of life. 

It is well that he was thus endowed with artificial attractions, 
for personally he was utterly insignificant, and without his 
broad acres and their attendant revenues, he would have met 
with but small success in society. 

At the present time he was devoting himself to Elsie; hence 
his appearance in the family room, and, according to his estab- 
lished rule of courtship, he had been singing feeble love-songs 
to his idol all the morning, to the secret discomfiture of 
Maude, and the openly expressed dissatisfaction of Master 
Jack, who, regardless of manners, had thrown himself upon the 
sofa, and from thence criticised this vocal entertainment. 

Duets succeeded solos, and Elsie was straining her voice to 
the utmost extent, in a dismal “adieu,” Strathmore was howl- 
ing a lamentable acquiescence, and Jack was groaning a double 
bass, when a quick, light step was heard in the hall, with a 
merry whistling accompaniment. 

3 


2 6 


o’er moor and fen. 


4 4 Thank the Lord,” exclaimed Jack, sotto voce , “here 
comes Bob,” and he stretched himself out at full length with 
a sigh of satisfaction. 

The step approaches, the door opens, and enter Bob. Not 
a man, nor even a lad, as the reader might suppose, only a 
slender girl. 

The loose folds of a riding-skirt hung gracefully about her, 
a jaunty little cap rested upon her smooth dark hair, and her 
sparkling blue eyes flashing with mischievous daring, slightly 
retroussi nose, and brilliant complexion, completed a piquant 
picture, which answered well to the name of “Bob.” 

She ceased whistling on the threshold as her rapid glance 
took in the tableau at the piano, and, with an expressive look 
at Jack, she pointed towards it with the end of her whip, then 
making a little “ moue" endeavored to steal unobserved into 
the room. 

But Elsie had already noticed her entrance, and advanced, 
followed by the attentive Strathmore, to greet her. 

“Good-morning, Bob,” she said, whilst Maude simply nod- 
ded a welcome from her seat. “ How good of you to ride over 
in the heat. Will you go up to my room and change your dress 
before luncheon ? ’ ’ 

“No, thanks,” replied Bob, advancing towards Jack; “I 
shall do very well as I am. I only came over to make this lazy 
fellow get up from his sofa, where my prophetic soul told me I 
should find him. Go back to your seat ; do not let me inter- 
rupt the music, I beseech you. I do not think I know your 
young man,” she continued, in a low voice. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon,” said Elsie, in confusion ; “ Mr. 
Strathmore, Miss Stevenson.” 

The parties thus introduced bowed formally, but without much 
apparent interest in each other, and the young gentleman, after 


o’er moor and fen. 


27 

a prolonged stare of surprise at the young lady, returned with 
alacrity to the piano, and the duets recommenced. 

Bob, or rather, Roberta Stevenson, for such was the name 
given her by her “sponsors in baptism,” looked about her for 
a moment, hesitating as to where she should sit down, and then, 
as Maude took no further notice of her, and Elsie was engaged, 
she dropped into a chair beside the still recumbent Jack. 

Maude highly disapproved of Bob’s manners, or rather her 
want of manners, and her general freedom of speech and 
action ; she, therefore, took pains to be only coldly civil to her 
on all occasions, lest any warmer reception should be con- 
strued by her as encouragement of her lawless ways, and her 
increasing intimacy with Jack, which was a cause of great un- 
easiness to his sister. 

Although Bob was too independent to care much for her 
opinion, her quick intelligence led her to perceive that for some 
reason her company was not acceptable to Maude ; she was, 
therefore, very chary of intruding upon her. 

But Jack had always a ready welcome for her, and thus she 
had accustomed herself to turn to him on occasions like the 
present, when there seemed no particular place assigned for her 
in the family. 

“ How long has this been going on ? ” she inquired of Jack, 
as she seated herself at his side, nodding her head, as she spoke, 
towards Elsie. 

“They have been at it since nine o’clock this morning,” 
groaned Jack, “and if they continue much longer, they will 
have an opportunity of singing my requiem.” 

“ Has it come to such a pass as that? ” said Bob, laughing, 
and disclosing thereby two rows of pretty white pearls. 

“Alas, yes,” replied Jack, “I am sinking rapidly; I shall 
hardly last through the next half-hour.’ 


28 


o'er moor and fen. 


“Is it the music or the love-making that has brought my 
noble boy so low ? ” asked Bob. 

“It is the frightful combination,” replied Jack, in a sepul- 
chral tone. “Either might have been borne alone, but the 
continuous braying of that ass Strathmore, added to the lachry- 
mose expression of his gooseberry eyes, are rather more than 
even my Christian fortitude can stand.” 

“Thus then we part,” 
sang Elsie, in a sweet treble voice. 

“Thou hast my heart,” 

replied Leonard’s shrill tenor. 

“Just listen to them ! ” exclaimed the exasperated Jack. 

“ My precious pet,” said Bob, unable to repress her merri- 
ment at his discomfiture, “ let me take you away from here. 
Your brain will assuredly suffer if you continue to contemplate 
this interesting tableau much longer. Come with me at once, 
if you would preserve your reason. ’ ’ 

“ Where will you take me ? ” grumbled Jack ; “ I would have 
gone away long ago, had I known where to take refuge, but 
their din can be heard all over the house, and I cannot make 
up my mind to go out while it is so confoundedly hot.” 

“Was it afraid of its complexion?” said Bob, saucily. 
“ Ah, well, it would be a pity to burn its dear nose. Borrow 
a veil from Maude, or, see, I have a sunshade on the end of my 
whip — you shall have that to hold over your pretty face.” 

“ Stop your nonsense, Bob,” replied Jack, with a grim smile. 
“I wish you would try the other end of that whip on Strath- 
more’s shoulders,” he added, as she unfurled a pretty little 
sunshade, which was ingeniously attached to the whip-handle, 
and held it up for his inspection. 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


2 9 


“I would much rather use it on you,” said Bob, playfully 
threatening him with it. “ Get up, you lazy, good-for-nothing 
scamp, and come out with me, ‘ Across the fields of barley 
O’.” 

“Not if I know myself, and I think I do,” replied Jack. 
“ Nothing but yourself or a salamander could stand the heat 
of the sun to-day, without being thoroughly cooked.” 

“Yet there seems to be another human being who has sur- 
vived the ordeal,” said Bob, “ for, if I am not mistaken, I hear 
footsteps on the river-path.” 

“By Jove ! ” said Jack, after listening attentively, “ I believe 
there is some idiot ringing the door-bell ; but it remains to be 
seen whether or not he be baked brown. Girls,” he added, 
“ visitors.” 

“ Visitors ! ” exclaimed Maude, springing to her fee£. “ Oh, 
Elsie ! There is some one at the hall-door, and you are still in 
your morning dress. What will you do ? ” 

“Stay where I am, dear,” said Elsie, caressingly; “you are 
beautifully dressed, and look so lovely that no one who sees 
you will think of me, or ask to see any one but yourself.” 

“ I do not think the visitor is asking for any one,” said 
Bob ; “he seems to be piloting himself here, without waiting for 
an invitation.” And true enough, as they paused to listen, they 
could hear a firm quick step approaching along the tiled floor. 

Open the door once more, dear reader, and admit Mr. Robert 
Weston to the abode of happiness. 

3 * 


30 


o’er moor and fen. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE ABODE OF HAPPINESS. 

“ Inconstant as the passing wind, 

As winter’s dreary frost unkind ; 

To fix her were a task as vain 
To count the April drops of rain.” 

R OY ! ’ ’ exclaimed Maude, turning to greet the new comer 
with a smile ; “how long it is since we have seen you.” 
“Welcome, little stranger,” said Jack, kissing his hand to 
him dramatically. 

“ My lord, I pray you be seated,” said Roberta, following 
suit, and rising she pushed a chair towards the young man, 
making at the same time a low obeisance. 

“Really, I am overcome by your reception,” said Roy, but 
his eyes wandered eagerly to Elsie, who, to his surprise, gave 
him but a stately greeting from her throne, the music-stool, 
and then immediately turned to her music-book, on which .she 
fixed her attention, although with heightened color and beat- 
ing heart. 

She was angry with Roy, and had determined to treat him 
coldly, but her heart rebelled at the task she had set it, and the 
chords became dis-cords under her trembling hands. 

“Heavens and earth!” cried Jack, at this new grievance; 
“your music is bad enough, Elsie, without the addition of false 
notes. What is it that you are trying to play ? ’ ’ 

“ Did I strike a false note? ” said Elsie, stopping in confusion ; 
“how very stupid of me. I must try your patience sadly, Mr. 
Strathmore. The piece is called ‘ The Widow’s Last Lament/ ” 


o’er moor and fen. 


31 

she continued, turning to Jack, “it is new, and considered 
very pretty. ’ ’ 

“It is to be hoped that it was her last,” said Jack. 

“ Translated into English, Elsie, it means 4 The tune the old 
cow died on ! ’ ” said Bob ; “ without doubt, that cow and your 
widow were one and the same.” 

“I think Miss Elsie confused the sharps with the flats,” 
said Mr. Strathmore, politely. “It is difficult to avoid doing 
so, when reading a piece of music for the first time.” 

“I doubt if she knows a ‘flat’ when she sees one,” 
muttered Jack, with a significant look at the last speaker. 

“ Fie ! for shame ! ” said Bob, struggling with inward laugh- 
ter. “If Annida were present, she would say you ought to be 
sent to the nursery.” 

“By the way, where is Miss De Luce?” inquired Roy, 
endeavoring to turn the conversation into a less personal chan- 
nel, on perceiving that Elsie’s cheeks were as red as roses ; “ she 
has not left you, I hope ? ’ ’ 

“No such good fortune has befallen us,” replied Jack. 
“ In the words of the immortal poet, 

“ ‘ Miss Ann, Miss Ann, she sits in the sun. 

As fair as a lily, as brown as a bun ! ’ 

“ She is outside in the arbor, engaged in the Christian work 
of civilizing Arthur Leighton. But I say, Roy,” he added, 
with animation, “if you have any influence with my sister 
Elsie, do persuade her to stop ‘miauing,’ before we are all 
reduced to a state of idiocy.” 

“I am not aware that I have any influence,” said Roy, cast- 
ing a reproachful look towards his fair cousin; “but even if I 
had, I should not use it in that way, for I am very fond of 
music, and your sister has a remarkably sweet voice.” 


32 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ Oh, it is sweet, without doubt,” replied Jack, “ but you see 
the present is a case of ‘ lingering sweetness long drawn out,’ 
(namely, from nine o’clock a. m. to one o’clock p. m.,) and it 
is too great a stretch for one day. Too much sugar at a time 
destroys the digestion. I am on the verge of 4 musical 
cholera.’ ” 

“ I noticed that you were choleric ,” said Bob, “ but I thought 
it was owing to the love-making more than the music. Stop 
the duet, Mr. Weston, and I think we shall find a change for the 
better in our patient.” 

“The love-making!” echoed Roy, looking anxiously from 
one to the other; “who is making love, and to whom? ” * 

“Oh, the innocent babe, hear how he prattles! ” exclaimed 
Jack. “He asks, forsooth, who is making love, when right 
before him stands ‘ Coddled Gooseberries ’ reducing himself 
to a syrup 'by the warmth of his feelings, and simmering away 
delightfully. Yield to the dictates of your heart, old fellow, 
and pitch him out of the window.” 

“As long as your sister does not object to his company,” 
replied Roy, “I do not' think any of us have a right to com- 
plain. He certainly does not intrude himself upon us” — but as 
he spoke he cast a threatening glance upon the young man, who 
was just then bending over his idol, not for the apparent pur- 
pose of being able to read the music, but, as Roy felt assured, 
now that his eyes had been opened, for the real purpose of being 
nearer the fair songstress, and enabled now and then to graze 
with his cheek that glorious shining hair. 

“I believe they are going to sing again,” said Bob, with a 
hearty laugh at Jack’s discomfiture. “ Come, my boy, let us 
retreat to the billiard-room. There we'' may knock about the 
balls, and make a noise ourselves.” 

“Agreed,” said Jack, rising slowly to his feet; “ let us go at 






once. Give me your arm, Bob ; you are a jewel of high price. 
Bless you, my child, for your suggestion.’ ’ And thus they 
walked out of the room together, leaving Roy alone with the 
lovers, for Maude had gone to seek her mother. 

For a few moments the young man hesitated as to what 
course he should pursue. Should he also leave the room, or, 
following his heart’s desire, walk boldly up to the piano and 
address his cousin. 

He at last decided to do the latter, and sauntering across the 
room, he picked up a piece of music which had fallen upon the 
floor and replaced it upon the music-stand. As he did so, the 
name caught his eye, “ Oh, wert thou in the cauld, cauld blast.” 
It was a duet that he had himself given Elsie when he was last 
with her. 

“ Have you learned this yet? ” he asked. 

4 ‘No,” she replied coldly, “the contralto part is too low for 
my voice.” 

“That is easily remedied,” said Roy; “we wiU transpose it. 
A tone or a half tone higher will make it all right.” 

“I do not think that would improve it,” said Elsie. “It 
would then be as much too high for the tenor as my part is now 
too low for me.” 

“Not at all,” replied Roy, eagerly; “my voice can easily 
compass the high notes. Let us try it.” 

“ It is hardly worth while,” replied Elsie, carelessly. “ Even 
if you could sing it after the transposition, no one else could, 
and it is too much trouble to learn a song which can only be 
sung with one person. Do you not think so, Mr. Strath- 
more ? ’ ’ 

“ I object seriously, Miss Elsie, to your learning any song that 
I cannot sing,” replied the gentleman addressed ; “and I agree 
with you that the transposition would place the tenor part 

C 


34 


o’er moor and fen. 


entirely beyond the compass of any voice save that of a pro- 
fessional singer.” 

Roy felt no inclination to pronounce an eulogium upon his 
own voice ; he therefore dropped the subject, merely saying : 

“ I yield to Mr. Strathmore’s superior knowledge. Let the 
song remain as it is ; perhaps I may be fortunate enough some 
day to find a voice to which it is adapted, and, meanwhile, 
as it is of no use to you, cousin, I may as well take possession 
of it.” 

He rolled up the music as he spoke, looking anxiously at Elsie, 
hoping to see an expression of regret upon her countenance, 
but she only bowed her acquiescence, and said : 

“ Certainly, it is your own ; do with it what you please.” 

Roy’s heart sank within him; alas, how changed was his 
cousin, and in so short a space of time. 

“ What is the subject under discussion, and why do you all 
look so cross ? ’ ’ said a rich, full voice from the open window, 
and Annida De Luce entered from the garden, followed by Mr. 
Arthur Leighton. 

“Ah! Miss De Luce,” said Roy, advancing towards her; 
“I am glad to meet you again ; you have come upon us at an 
opportune moment, if you know how to sing, for Elsie, Mr. 
Strathmore, and myself are disputing as to whether or not this 
song is set too low.” 

“ Oh, of course I sing,” replied Annida, with a sweet smile, 
“every one sings, or think they do, which is all the same. 
Let me try the song. If Bob Stevenson were here, she would 
tell you that nothing was ever ‘ too low ’ for me.” 

There was nothing for Elsie to do under these circumstances 
but to relinquish her seat to Annida, which she did with a pang 
of unreasonable jealousy, and retired to Jack’s sofa, whither she 
was followed by Mr. Strathmore, who felt vaguely that some- 


o’er moor and fen. 


35 

thing had disturbed her serenity, but was at a loss to imagine 
what it could be. 

Annida possessed a rich contralto voice, with a good ear for 
music, and the duet was a complete success, which did not con- 
duce to relieve Elsie’s discomfort. She was angry with Roy 
for asking Annida to sing with him, although she had refused 
to do so herself ; she was angry with Annida for singing, 
although there was no reason whatever why she should not have 
done so ; she was angry at Strathmore on account of his assidu- 
ous attention to her, when he ought to know that she wished 
to be left to herself. Altogether, poor little Elsie was very 
unhappy. 

Annida De Luce was a handsome brunette, large, flashing, 
black eyes, a quantity of coal-black hair, regular features, full 
pouting lips, and a clear, dark skin, lit up by crimson cheeks, 
made a tout ensemble at which a man would turn to gaze a 
second time. 

She was a niece of Mrs. Von Decker, whose^ister had married 
Monsieur De Luce in New Orleans, where he was engaged in 
business, and there Annida had been born and had passed the 
better part of her life. 

Being very proud of her French descent, Annida had, at an 
early age, perfected herself in that language, which she spoke 
with the ease and grace of a Parisian, and having been her 
father’s constant companion during his lifetime, she had gained 
so many little French ways and actions, that she not unfrequently 
passed for a native of that country. 

The eldest of a large and not very wealthy family, she soon 
learned that she had only herself to look to for support, and 
when, the two years of mourning over after her father’s death, 
her aunt had invited her to visit her cousins and be introduced 
into New York society, the invitation had been joyfully ac- 


3 6 


o’er moor and fen. 


cepted, and the ambitious girl had left home with the deter- 
mination to carve out her future during this visit. 

The style of living at the Von Deckers’ exceeded Annida’s 
brightest dreams, and each succeeding day made the thought 
of returning to the penury of her former life unendurable, and 
determined her to leave no means untried by which she might 
make all these pleasures her own forever. 

She had therefore tried her powers of fascination upon her 
cousin Jack, although two years his senior, and with such suc- 
cess that the boy would certainly have married her had it not 
been for the intervention of Bob Stevenson, who, coming to 
the rescue just in time, had routed the enemy by a counter 
movement. 

Bob was not actuated by any selfish motive in this engage- 
ment, for she well knew that even were Jack free and in love 
with herself, she could never marry him. The only girl among 
six motherless children, how would it be possible for her to 
leave home until the youngest nestling was fledged, and Spencer 
was but six years and a half old. 

Bob had, therefore, set her face against matrimony, and if 
Jack, who was her especial “chum,” had seen fit to fall in love 
with one who could have made him happy, she would never 
have interfered, but her natural instinct warned her that Annida 
wished to marry Jack’s money more than the boy himself, so 
she threw herself into the breach, and, as was her custom, fought 
valiantly for that which she deemed the weaker cause. 


O ER MOOR AND FEN 


3 7 


CHAPTER IV. 


SHADOWS. 

“ As I have seen a boat go down 
In quiet waters suddenly, 

When not a wave was in the sea 
Nor in the sky a frown.” 



HILST this musical entertainment was proceeding in 


V V the library, a duet of a different sort was taking place 
above stairs, whither Maude had gone in search of her mother, 
who rarely emerged from her apartments before the hour for 
luncheon, and sometimes even not until dinner was announced. 

Mrs. Von Decker was an only child, and had been used to 
rule those around her from her early childhood, beginning 
with her parents when she was very small, and then taking in 
their order the numerous satellites which always surround a 
beauty and an heiress in society, her husband and her children. 

She had become so accustomed to the homage rendered her 
that she ceased to think of it as anything remarkable, but 
received it with a gentle, placid smile, and the graciousness of 
a queen, whose position is so well assured that she can afford to 
acknowledge courtesies without compromising her high estate. 

Her husband adored her, treating her always as a delicate 
exotic, and striving forever to shield her from annoyance of any 
description ; whilst her children, following instinctively their 
father’s example, avoided troubling her as much as possible, 
and, bringing themselves up “ according to their light,” reversed 
the usual order of nature, and, so to speak, took their maternal 
parent “ under their wing.” 


4 


38 


o’er moor and fen. 


Her affection for them was sincere, but unfortunately it par- 
took of her own dreamy, unreal existence ; and although she lis- 
tened with tranquil interest to all that they voluntarily told her 
of themselves, she took no pains to make herself acquainted 
with their individual characters, or their actual daily life. 

She passed the better part of her time in her own room, 
perusing works of fiction, and even when she emerged from 
thence, it was only to create for herself another romance in 
following out in her mind the future of one or other of her 
children, seldom with any regard to probability, and often 
beyond the bounds of possibility. 

Scores of times had she married her daughters to counts, 
dukes, princes, and Jack to some one equally superior ; and yet 
she never wearied of the farce, but when she had come to the 
last page, began it all over again with unflagging interest, 
wholly unconscious that meanwhile her heroes and heroines 
were actually growing up around her, and seeking their future 
for themselves, without any sort of guidance save that of their 
own impulsive hearts. 

As Maude tapped gently at her mother’s door, she received 
a summons to enter, but the absent tone of the voice that spoke 
told her the speaker was far away in the land of day-dreams, 
and she was therefore prepared for the apparition which greeted 
her eyes as she unclosed the door, of a still handsome woman, 
with small delicate features and transparent complexion, seated 
in a low easy chair, with her feet on a cushion, absorbed in a 
romance, whilst her maid softly smoothed the still luxuriant 
fair hair which floated over her shoulders. 

Maude found it simply impossible to attract her mother’s 
attention to herself at first, but being a very persistent young 
lady, she took a seat and calmly awaited the extrication of the 
heroine from a perilous situation, and the completion of her 


o’er moor and fen. 


39 


mother’s hair dressing, which fortunately took place about the 
same time ; and then, as the maid retired, she seated herself on 
the cushion at her mother’s feet, and taking hold of her book, 
gently drew it from her, saying, with a coaxing smile : 

“There, now, mamma dearest, since you are looking as 
pretty as a rose, and your sigh of relief tells me that your 
heroine is out of danger, let me put the book aside for a few 
moments, and persuade you to make a heroine of me, and 
listen attentively whilst I pour out the history of my woes. ’ ’ 

Thus appealed to, Mrs. Von Decker relinquished her book 
with a sigh, and turned her attention to her daughter. 

“What is it that you wish to tell me, my dear?” she in- 
quired. 

“I have nothing startling to relate,” replied Maude, with a 
smile. “ I have not murdered any one, neither am I dying of 
a broken heart. I only want to talk to you of Jack.” 

“ Well, dear, what of him ? ” said her mother, as she paused. 

“I am very uneasy about him,” replied Maude, in a serious 
tone. 

“Indeed ! ” said Mrs. Von Decker, now fully aroused to in- 
terest. “ What is the matter with him ? It must be a very 
sudden attack; his health is usually very good.” 

“His health is now good, but his behavior is bad,” replied 
Maude, smiling again to relieve her mother’s anxiety, but the 
remark had the effect of bringing a still more anxious expres- 
sion to her countenance, as she exclaimed : 

“Your last speech is more incomprehensible than the first. 
Jack is assuredly a gentleman, both in manners and morals. 
How can he have offended ? ’ ’ 

“Roberta Stevenson is here again,” was Maude’s only re- 
sponse. 

“Well, my dear, I fail to see the significance of your re- 


40 


o’er moor and fen. 


mark,” replied her mother. “What has her presence here 
to do with Jack? ” 

“Just this,” exclaimed Maude, with animation, “that she 
comes to see Jack, and no one else.” 

“ That is very improper conduct on her part, without doubt,” . 
said Mrs. Von ^Decker, “ but I do not see that Jack is to blame ; 
he could not very well tell her that she must not come ; it would 
be ungen tlemanly in him to do so.” 

“And everything must be given up to the ‘code’ of gentle- 
man, of course,” replied Maude. 

“ Certainly, dear,” said Mrs. Von Decker placidly, not per- 
ceiving the sarcasm of her daughter’s remark. “I trust that 
my son would never, under any circumstances, be guilty of 
conduct unbecoming a gentleman.” 

“But surely, mamma, a girl that behaves as Roberta does, 
should not expect to be treated with respect?” said Maude. 
“ She is entirely unlike other girls of her age, and prides her- 
self upon her independence.” 

“ Independence is a very good trait, dear,” replied Mrs. Von 
Decker, “ especially when a girl is motherless, and the eldest 
of a large family.” 

“You will not think so highly of it, dear mother,” said 
Maude, earnestly, “when this ‘independent’ young lady mar- 
ries your son and casts upon him the burden of five unruly 
boys.” 

“But Mr. Stevenson is still alive; why, then, should his boys 
trouble any one but himself?” inquired Mrs. Von Decker, in 
surprise. 

“He still continues to walk upon the earth and to eat and 
drink all that he can get,” replied Maude, contemptuously; 
“ but as for the use that he is to his family, he might as well be 
laid on the shelf beside his precious antiquities. He is writing 


o’er moor and fen. 


41 

another book, you know, and his children are simply machines 
to hunt up references.” 

“Ah! a man of science,” said Mrs. Von Decker, quickly 
sketching a romantic view of the Stevensons, as was her wont. 
“ Passing his days among old folios, and his nights in laborious 
work. And his fair young daughter assists him in his researches, 
did you say ? Charming creature. ’ ’ 

It was plain to be seen by these words that Mrs. Von Decker 
had entirely forgotten the real subject of conversation, and was 
once more ambling along on her hobby, but Maude, in no way 
disconcerted, came once more “to the front” and renewed the 
attack. 

“ Roberta would make a very charming ‘private secretary,’ 
without doubt,” she said; “but how will it’ please you to see 
the future mistress of Beechcroft walking about whistling witli 
her hands in her pockets, and her hat on the side of her head, 
calling the young men of her acquaintance by their first names, 
talking slang, riding wild horses, driving tandem or four-in- 
hand with equal ease, and, in fact, drawing the eyes of the 
world upon her by every word and action ? ’ ’ 

As Maude delivered this eloquent address, her mother gazed 
at her in speechless horror. All romance died out of her mind 
in regard to Roberta Stevenson, as she mentally compared 
Maude’s graphic description of her with the Dorotheas and 
Amelias of her ideal world. Assuredly this girl was no wife for 
Jack. 

“ My dear,” she said, “ you must put a stop to this at once. 
I will not have Jack marry her.” 

“ / must put a stop to it,” exclaimed Maude, “and pray how 
am I to do it ? Jack never listens to my advice on any subject. 
No, papa is the proper one to speak to him, only he is so un- 
fortunately short-sighted in these matters.” 

4* 


42 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ Do you think so? ” said Mrs. Von Decker. “ I have always 
thought him remarkably far-sighted. I remember that before 
I was married he was always worrying about my admirers, 
imagining that every one I spoke to was in love with me.” 

“ Oh, but that was so long ago,” said Maude. 

“Not so long, as you seem to think,” replied her mother, 
with a little natural indignation, “ and even if it was, your 
father has certainly shown perspicuity enough to save him from 
his daughter’s reproaches in this affair of Roy Weston’s. He 
has forbidden him to come to the house.” 

“Roy Weston,” repeated Maude, in surprise; “why he is 
down-stairs now.” 

“You don’t say so,” said her mother. “It is very extraor- 
dinary; your father repeated only this morning that he was to 
come here no more until Elsie had gone to school.” 

“Why not?” said Maude, with rapidly changing color; 
“ what has Roy to do with Elsie ? ” 

“ He wishes to marry her,” said her mother, “ and of course 
your father could not allow it. Elsie must look higher. ’ ’ 

Maude made no response ; she was trying to grasp the mean- 
ing of her mother’s words. Roy, her friend and companion 
ever since he had entered her father’s house a homesick boy, in 
love with Elsie, whom he had always treated as a little child. 

“Is it possible that it is two o’clock already?” exclaimed 
Mrs. Von Decker, rising and proceeding to complete her toilet. 
“ Come, Maude, dear, let us go down-stairs; luncheon is ready.” 

“It cannot be possible,” murmured Maude, answering her 
own thoughts, and still retaining her lowly position, scarcely 
noticing that her mother had left her seat. 

“ Oh, yes it is, my dear,” said Mrs. Von Decker, supposing 
her daughter’s incredulity was on the subject of luncheon. “ I 
heard the bell ; did not you ? ’ ’ 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


43 


Maude still remained silent and motionless, lost in a troubled 
retrospection. Alas ! could her mother have read her heart, 
she would have found more to interest her there than all her 
cherished volumes could afford her ; but it was to her a sealed 
book, and she never dreamed the suffering her words had 
caused. 

✓ 

In vain Maude struggled to remember how and when it was 
that she had first learned to think that Roy loved her, but she 
had felt assured that such was the case, and could not so 
suddenly face the possibility of mistake. Had she not always 
participated in his hopes and fears, wept over his sorrows, re- 
joiced in his successes? Was she not the repository of his 
most cherished secrets? Could Elsie ever love him as she did? 
Alas ! had he really conquered both their hearts. Then assuredly 
one must suffer the pangs of disappointment, and could the 
other be happy in the knowledge that she had robbed her 
sister’s existence of all happiness? 

“Maude, dear, which of these shall I put on?” asked her 
mother, holding in either hand a gossamer cap for her daughter’s 
inspection ; but Maude could not sufficiently recover herself to 
answer this sudden demand upon her taste, and gazing vacantly 
before her, she murmured : 

“ Both ; both must suffer.” 

“Both ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Von Decker, gazing at her in con- 
sternation. “Good gracious, Maude, how little taste you 
have. Just imagine my wearing two caps at once, each one 
trimmed with a different color. It is preposterous.” 

Aroused at last by her mother’s excitement, Maude became 
suddenly aware of her ill-advised answers, and rising hastily, 
she selected a cap, which she placed with tender hands upon her 
mother’s head, saying, as she did so : 

“Forgive me, mamma dearest, I did not hear what you 


44 


o’er moor and fen. 


said. There ! now you look beautiful. Shall we go down- 
stairs ? ” 

And winding her arm around her waist, she drew her gently 
from the room. 


CHAPTER V. 


WHAT DOES IT MEAN ? 

“ For never now as in the sweet, past time. 

Does my devotion meet with a reward ; 

Those eyes that once met mine with true accord, 
Look lovingly in other eyes than mine.” 


S Mrs. Von Decker and her daughter descended the stairs, 



l \ they came upon the rest of the family gathered in the 
hall below, awaiting their appearance before proceeding to the 
dining-room, whence sundry agreeable and savory odors issued, 
announcing to the hungry a delightful repast. 

Perhaps the hungriest of the party was poor Bob, for the 
home fare of the Stevensons was meagre enough, yet she 
paused at the door, and, instead of entering with the others, 
uttered a melancholy “Good-bye,” feeling that she ought not, 
uninvited, partake of the Von Deckers’ hospitality, and being 
undecided as to whether her hostess had intended to include 
her in her general invitation to enter. 

Jack was the only one, apparently, who noticed her hesitation. 
“ Good-bye ! ” he exclaimed ; “ nonsense; come along, and 
‘ take the goods the gods provide.’ ” 

“ Thank you ; no, I must go home,” faltered Bob, the tempt- 
ing viands making her feel hungrier than before. “ Father 
will be expecting me, and then the boys, you know. ’ ’ 


o’er moor and fen. 


45 


“No, I don’t know,” replied Jack, impatiently; “I do not 
see the least reason why you should always be a slave to an old 
man and a parcel of brats ; cannot they take care of them- 
selves for a few hours ? ’ ’ 

“But I have not ordered dinner,” said Bob; “they will 
have nothing to eat.” 

“I venture to assert that they will not starve,” said Jack. 

“Perhaps not,” replied Bob, smiling, “But they may eat 
each other for want of something better.” 

“ ’T is a consummation devoutly to be wished,” quoted Jack; 
“but,” he added, “I should not care to be the fellow who 
had to dine off of your father ; he would be a precious tough ' 
old subject for a meal.” 

“Jack, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” exclaimed 
Bob, trying to assume an expression of righteous indignation ; 
but the sparkle of her laughing eyes belied the gravity of her 
firmly set lips, and in no way disconcerted Jack. 

“You brought the remark upon yourself,” he said, “by put- 
ting the old gentleman forward as an excuse for not being 
jolly. He is a regular old man of the mountain, marring 
everything like innocent enjoyment.” 

“ You are very much mistaken,” said Bob, quickly. “ Father 
is always pleased to have me enjoy myself.” 

“ No doubt, provided you do not interfere with his comfort,” 
replied Jack ; “ but come in and take some grub, and I will for- 
give him all his sins.” 

“Oh, Jack, how very vulgar you are,” exclaimed Maude, 
with a disgusted expression, as her brother’s last words fell upon 
her sensitive ears. 

“My dear boy, you forget yourself,” said his mother. 

“ This aggravating girl is enough to make a fellow swear,” 
said Jack. “ Here she stands, starving, at the entrance of a 


46 


o’er moor and fen. 


hall of plenty, refusing to enter and satisfy her appetite, be- 
cause her father may need her in his smoky library to find the 
pedigree of some antediluvian rock. ’ ’ 

This allusion to Bob’s researches into mouldy volumes im- 
mediately recalled to Mrs. Von Decker’s mind her first roman- 
tic impressions, and entirely forgetting all Maude’s remom 
strances, she smiled sweetly on the blushing girl, and said : 

“ I am sure Roberta would not think of treating us so rudely 
as to leave the house without breaking bread with us. Her 
refusal must be owing to your uncouth invitation ; ask her 
again more politely, and I think she must accept. ’ ’ 

Jack turned towards Roberta, his eyes sparkling with mis- 
chief, and laying a hand upon his heart, and slightly inclining 
his body, he exclaimed : 

“Adored Miss Stevenson, may your humble slave aspire to 
the honor of escorting you to the banqueting-hall, where a 
smoking feast awaits us wherewith to restore your too delicate 
organization, now suffering from long-continued abstinence ? ’ ’ 
A shout of merry laughter greeted Jack’s rhetorical effort, 
and Bob, drooping the long lashes over her eyes, and curtseying 
low, replied : 

“Ah, sir, you do me too much honor. The clock had but 
just chimed six when I partook of my matutinal meal, and 
although my nature is undeniably ethereal, yet whilst we tread 
this sublunary sphere, we must masticate to preserve the spark 
of life within our frail bodies, and exhausted nature calls to me 
for nourishment ; how, then, can I refuse your invitation ? ’ ’ 
“Let us hence at once, then, dear lady,” said Jack. “To 
the banqueting-hall ! to the banqueting-hall ! ” 

“ Enter hero and heroine to slow mnsic,” said Roy, as Jack 
led Roberta to a seat at the table. “ What can I help you to, 
Miss Stevenson ; the wing of a fly ? ” 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


47 


“ Allow me to suggest,” said Jack, with imperturbable 
gravity, “would not the — a-hem — the limb of a musquito be 
more nutritious ? ’ ’ 

“’Tis what my poetical soul longs for,” ejaculated Bob, 
rolling up her eyes to the ceiling with so unpoetical an expres- 
sion on her round, rosy face, that every one laughed heartily, 
with the exception of Maude, who never saw anything amusing 
or witty in speeches coming from that quarter, and who was, 
besides, absorbed in a furtive contemplation of Roy Weston, 
who was seated on her right hand. 

“Why so pensive?” asked Roy, when, the tumult having 
subsided, he noticed the sad expression of her face. 

“I have a headache,” she replied, “and do not care much 
for nonsense at any time.” 

“And yet, when taken in moderate doses, it is refreshing,” 
said Roy; “I have had so little of it lately, that the effect is 
delightful. ’ ’ 

“ It has been your own fault, if you have felt the want of 
it,” said Maude ; “for there is always enough and to spare at 
Beechcroft, when Roberta Stevenson and Jack are together.” 

“But I have not been at Beechcroft for nearly two months,” 
said Roy, gently; “and I assure you that life in Wall Street 
at this season is anything but a joke.” 

“And why have you not been here? ” asked Maude, glancing 
reproachfully at him, whilst her heart beat quickly with anxiety 
as to his answer. 

“It has not been my fault, I assure you,” replied Roy, col- 
oring beneath her earnest look. “I cannot exactly explain 
matters to you now; we must wait for a more convenient 
season.” 

“And when will that be?” said Maude, eagerly determined 
to know the worst as soon as possible ; but Roy did not answer, 


48 


o’er moor and fen. 


his attention having been arrested by Leonard Strathmore, who 
was saying to Elsie, in a low voice : 

“ At what time, then, will you be ready to go out sailing with 
me this afternoon ? that is, provided a little breeze springs up 
between this and night.” 

“At any hour you name, if it is not too hot,” Elsie replied; 
and Roy felt his heart burn with indignation, as he heard her 
promising herself for the afternoon to the man that had stood 
in his way all the morning. Why had he been at so much 
trouble to come and see this little flirt, who, despite the favor 
she had lavished on him formerly, had not waited quite three 
weeks after he had been forced to leave her, before she had sup- 
plied his place in her affections. 

“When did you say you would tell me about yourself?” 
said Maude, a faint blush mantling her cheek, as she noticed the 
direction of his eyes and the wandering of his attention. 

“I beg pardon,” said Roy, confusedly, trying to recover the 
thread of the conversation. “What was it you wished me to 
do? Oh, yes, I recollect,” he added, hurriedly. “I will tell 
you everything the first time I see you alone ; ” and then all 
conversation was put an end to for the time, by a general rising 
from the table. 

“Just look at that boy ! ” exclaimed Jack, calling attention 
to poor Alfred, who was endeavoring in great haste to finish the 
banana he was eating. “ He is bolting the fruit whole. Faugh, 
child, you might as well be a boa constrictor.” 

“ Oh, no,” said Bob, quickly. “ Don’t be too hard on him, 
he is only a bananaconda .” 

During the laughter which followed this sally, Leonard 
Strathmore steadily regarded Roberta with very much the ex- 
pression he would have worn had he suddenly encountered a 
South Sea Islander. He did not understand her at all, and an 


o’er moor and fen. 


49 


uneasy suspicion seized him that she was laughing at him in 
some covert way. He repeated the word “ bananaconda, ” but 
without any appreciation of the joke, as he silently followed her 
out of the room. 

“ Strathmore looks as if he thought you were going to eat 
him,” whispered Jack in Roberta’s ear. 

“I am harmless now,” she replied, “I have just been fed. 
What has happened to you, Mr. Weston?” she continued, as 
Roy stood suddenly before her with a countenance black as 
night. 

“Miss Stevenson, I have a favor to ask of you,” replied 
Roy. 

“You have only to mention it to have it granted,” replied 
Bob, with a bright smile. 

“Thank you,” said Roy; “would you be so kind, then, as 
to engage Mr. Strathmore in conversation for a few moments, 
that I may say a few words to my cousin ? ’ ’ 

“ Certainly,” said Bob; “but you must tell me what to talk 
about, for I have only just made his acquaintance. ’ * 

“I think horses are a safe topic,” said Roy, smiling, “and 
one of mutual interest, I suspect, for he has just purchased, for 
a fabulous sum, Lord Ullan, a winner at the Long Branch 
races. ’ ’ 

“Ah! then we shall be at no loss for conversation, as I am 
intimately acquainted with the animal, if not with its master,” 
replied Bob, as she took her way across the room to join Elsie 
and her admirer. 

“Mr. Strathmore,” she said, as she approached, “Mr. Wes- 
ton tells me that you know a friend of mine, and I have come 
to ask after him. How is Lord Ullan ? ’ ' 

Leonard Strathmore was immediately interested. His new 
horse was to him an all-absorbing theme, and nothing pleased 
5 D 


o’er moor and fen. 


50 

him better than to be allowed to descant upon his merits to an 
intelligent listener, which, to his delight, Roberta proved to be. 
Her appreciative mind, her knowledge of horses, and above all 
the deference she adroitly expressed to his opinions, combined 
to fascinate him, and he, for the moment, became oblivious of 
his other companion, speaking in stable terms, that were as 
incomprehensible to her as Greek text. 

Slightly disgusted at this defalcation of her admirer, Elsie 
turned away, and in a moment Roy was at her side. 

“ Elsie,” he said, in alow voice, “I have something very 
important to tell you ; will you give me the pleasure of your 
society this afternoon ? ” 

“You speak too late,” she replied, coldly; “lam already 
engaged to go out with Mr. Strathmore.” 

“I could not speak sooner,” said Roy, sadly; “you have 
given me no opportunity ; so, be generous, and when I tell you 
how very much I wish to see you, break your engagement and 
come with me. The time is very short, you know, before you 
leave the country, and how many things may happen before 
you return.” 

“Iam particularly fond of sailing,” said Elsie, perversely. 

“ Then let me take you out,” said Roy, eagerly. 

“ I was not aware that you owned a yacht,” replied Elsie. 

Stung to the quick by this unkind reference to his poverty, 
Roy hesitated a moment before he answered, and then said, in 
a low, grave voice : 

“ No, Elsie, I have no yacht, no horses, no worldly goods 
worth mentioning; but I have youth, strength, and unsullied 
honor, and a pure, true heart, which I will take to some one 
who will have less scorn and more love for them than you. ’ ’ 

He turned on his heel as he spoke, and left her standing 
alone by the window opening on the verandah at the back of 


o’er moor and fen. 


SI 


the house, whence she could see Leonard Strathmore assisting 
Roberta Stevenson to mount her horse, and hear Roy’s voice 
on the lawn, almost immediately after, saying : 

“ Well, Maude, shall we have our private interview this after- 
noon ? Will you go boating with me ? ” 

Elsie turned abruptly from the window, and sought the 
shelter of her own room, running against Leonard Strathmore, 
who had hurried back, hat in hand, to complete the arrange- 
ments for the sailing party, before escorting Roberta home, as 
he had suddenly determined to do. 

“I don’t know anything about it,” said Elsie, pettishly, as 
he asked her opinion of the weather and the probability of a 
breeze arising from the south. “ I don’t want to go at all; it 
is dreadfully hot, and I hate yachting at any time.” 

Poor Leonard stood aghast; only a short half-hour before 
she had professed herself delighted at the prospect of a sail in 
the “ Saunterer.” 

“ You will not go, then? ” he said. 

“No,” she said, “I think not. That is, not on the yacht 
with a party ; but if we might go together — in a little boat, 
you know, that would be delightful,” and she gave him a glance 
and a smile that would have melted a heart of adamant. 

“ Why certainly we can do that, if you prefer it,” he replied, 
his face aglow with pleasure. “I will tell the captain to get 
me a nice little boat, and break up the yachting party with the 
excuse of no breeze,” and away he rushed, his little vain heart 
swelling with pleasurable emotions, from the presence of one 
entrancing girl, who yearned for his society alone, to another 
equally bewitching in her way, who sat on horseback in the 
shade of a large oak-tree, awaiting his leisure to see her home. 
Happily, he did not hear what she was saying to her companion 
as he mounted his horse. 


52 


o’er moor and fen. 


“I am very much obliged to you for the service you ren- 
dered me,” said Roy, patting her horse and arranging the 
bridle. 

“You ought to be,” groaned Bob, “for see what you have 
entailed upon me. The idiot is going to ride home with me.” 

“That is your own fault for being so attractive,” said Roy; 
“I only asked you to hold him in conversation for a moment, 
and you made him fall in love with you.” 

“Alas ! ” said Bob, smiling, “I have a powerful rival ; he is 
already in love with — himself” and she rode laughingly away 
with her companion, who joined her at that moment. 

“ Now he will not think I refused to go with him on account 
of the yacht,” exclaimed Elsie, as she shut herself up in her 
room. “ It was so mean of him to say such horrid things. 
Let him go to some one else if he wishes to. I shall not break 
my heart. I hate him ! Yes, I really do ! Oh ! oh ! oh ! I’m 
so miserable,” and covering her face with her hands, she sobbed 
and cried until, overcome by her unusual emotion and the heat, 
she fell fast asleep in her rocking-chair. 


o’er moor and fen. 


53 


CHAPTER VI. 

FRIENDS AND COUSINS. 

“ Oh, she had yet the task to learn, 

How often woman’s heart must burn, 

To feed upon its own excess, 

Of deep yet passionate tenderness.” 

H OW long she had thus slept Elsie did not know, when 
she was brought back to life by the touch of a pair of 
soft lips upon her forehead, eyes, and mouth, and on awakening 
to full consciousness, she encountered the gentle, loving glance 
of a tall, slender girl, who was bending over her. 

“Why, Nellie!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet in 
delighted surprise; “how did you get here? Where did you 
come from, and why did you not come before?” and she im- 
mediately subjected the new comer to one of those enthusiastic 
embraces common among school-girls, and partaking very much 
of the nature of a “ bear’s hug.” 

“ Why don’t you answer me at once? ” she continued, between 
her kisses ; “ don’t you know that I am dying to hear all about 
you ? ’ ’ 

“ How can I speak when you are smothering me?” laughed 
her friend. “ Give me an opportunity, and I will tell you 
everything. ’ ’ 

“ Do, that ’s a dear,” said Elsie, giving her another squeeze. 
“ Oh, I have been so worried about you. First I thought you 
must be sick ; then I thought, perhaps, that you would not be 
here in time to go with me next week ; and lastly, I came to 
the conclusion that you would at least have written, had you 
5 * 


54 


o’er moor and fen. 


not forgotten all about me, and taken some one else for a 
friend.’ ’ 

u Naughty girl,” replied Nellie, shaking her head at ‘her, 
“ did you think that I could be so fickle? Come here and let 
me scold you,” and seating herself, as she spoke, in a large easy 
chair, she drew her friend down upon her lap. 

It would have been hard to find a greater contrast than these 
two girls exhibited, seated thus with arms lovingly entwined 
about each other — the one calm, pale, and with an expression 
of self-reliance which made her appear at first sight much older 
than she really was ; the other with glowing cheeks, a passion- 
ate face, and a soft-yielding rosebud of a mouth, clinging to 
her friend with the careless, easy grace of a child, and with 
apparently not much more force of character. 

Nellie was not strictly beautiful, and might have been easily 
overlooked in a crowded assembly; nevertheless, there was a 
nameless charm about her to those who knew her well, and at 
times she looked positively lovely. Her face was a pure oval, 
her complexion clear though colorless, unless, indeed, some 
sudden emotion sent the blood rushing to her cheeks, when a 
faint pink blush appeared thereon, like the warmer tint of a tea 
rose, but only to fade away as quickly as it had come. A pair 
of large, thoughtful, gray eyes completes the picture, and if the 
reader will frame it in a wreath of soft brown hair, he will have 
before him Eleanor Marston at the age of eighteen. 

How Elsie and herself had ever become friends was a 
-mystery to all who knew them, for they were as unlike in 
character as in appearance, and had grown up in an entirely 
different atmosphere. 

Eleanor, an only child, had been educated at home, without 
other companionship than that of her parents and instructors, 
and in this quiet life the natural thoughtfulness of her disposition 


o'er moor and fen. 


55 


had been fostered into a gravity unusual in one of her years ; 
but her exclusion from youthful pleasures, and intercourse 
with girls of her own age, had given rise to a painful embarrass- 
ment on her part, when thrown on her .own resources in society. 
Thus, to a casual observer, Elsie seemed always to be the leading 
power, owing to her protecting manner towards her friend 
when they were together in company, but none knew how the 
positions were reversed when the two girls found themselves 
alone, and the vast superiority which Eleanor really possessed 
over her more versatile friend, owing to her habit of reflecting 
seriously on all subjects, asserted itself. 

Dr. and Mrs. Marston had seen too late the ill effects of 
their exclusive principles upon their daughter, and had wel- 
comed with delight her friendship with Elsie as a ‘‘sign of 
promise,” hoping that her lively companionship would draw 
Nellie out of her usual reserved habits ; and when Mr. Von 
Decker had proposed that she should accompany his daughter 
to a French pension for a term, before she was introduced into 
society, her parents accepted the suggestion at once, and it had 
been decided that they should sail together, under Mr. Von 
Decker’s care, the latter part of August ; hence Elsie’s anxiety, 
as the time for departure drew near, at the non-appearance of 
her friend, who had left the Island a few weeks previous to 
visit some relatives at the sea-side. 

“And now, dear,” said Nellie, “let me explain why I did 
not come home before, and also my silence respecting our 
plans. ” „ 

“Oh, it is of no consequence,” replied Elsie; “I am quite 
satisfied now that you have really come ; but, my dear, I did 
get dreadfully frightened. Just suppose that you had arrived 
too late, and I had been obliged to go alone. . Think of having 
to face a parcel of French girls all by oneself. I should have 
died, I am quite sure.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


56 

“ Don’t say that,” exclaimed Nellie, in a distressed tone, “ or 
I shall never have courage to tell you that which I ought to. I 
am sure that it cannot make much difference to you whether 
I go or stay,” she continued, “ you are so entirely independent 
of me among strangers. Pray tell me it is so, dearest, for papa 
has concluded that I had better remain at home.” 

Elsie looked at her in great surprise. “Nonsense!” she 
exclaimed. “ He gave his word to papa that you should go 
with me, and it is too late now for him to retract it. You must 
tell him so, Nellie,” she continued, in a tone of decision. 
“He never refused you anything you really desired.” 

“ He says that he finds, now that the time for separation 
draws near, he cannot make up his mind to let me go so far 
away,” said Nellie, with a sigh, “and indeed, dear, when I 
saw how much the plan distressed both himself and mamma, I 
had not the heart to urge it. They are getting old, you know, 
and I am their ‘ ewe lamb.’ ” 

“And after promising faithfully to go with me, you have 
come here at the last moment to tell me that you have changed 
your mind,” exclaimed Elsie, .vehemently. “ I think it is really 
too bad. I don’t believe you care anything at all about me. 
Do you suppose that I would treat you so for any number of 
fathers and mothers? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, 

' Nellie Marston,” and Elsie slid from her friend’s lap down upon 
the floor, hiding her face in her hands and giving herself up 
to unrestrained weeping. 

“Please do not cry, dear,” said Nellie, gently; “I do love 
you very dearly, and there is no personal sacrifice that I would 
not make for you; but, Elsie darling, one must consider one’s 
duty to one’s parents before everything ; and I feel assured that 
I ought to stay with them, now that they need my care, when 
they have so often sacrificed their wishes to my comfort and 


o’er moor and fen. 


57 

pleasure. Look up, dear, and tell me I am right,” and she 
tried to raise her friend’s head. 

4 ‘No, you are not right,” replied Elsie, repulsing her ca- 
resses; “you are altogether wrong and very cruel. Your 
father and mother will have each other even if you do go, and 
I — I will have no o?ie , if you do not. Alone, all alone in a 
foreign land,” moaned Elsie, weeping floods of tears as she 
thought of her sad position. 

“You will soon make friends, dear,” said Nellie, soothingly ; 
“you are so beautiful and lovable, that you cannot help but 
win hearts wherever you may go,” and she tenderly stroked 
the golden head bent so low in grief. “ Now, if the cases 
were reversed,” she continued, “and I were the one who was 
obliged to ‘launch her craft on foreign seas,’ there would be 
great need of the prayers of all good people, for my plain face 
wins me but few friends, and my shy, awkward manners lose 
me the few I gain.” 

“ That is not true,” said Elsie, quickly aroused to her better 
self by the tone of her friend’s voice. “You are far lovelier 
than any one I know, and papa says that he never saw such a 
pair of eyes as yours out of a picture-frame. ’ ’ 

“ That may be so,” said Nellie, blushing slightly at the com- 
pliment, “and, in fact, I believe my eyes are good; but, my 
dear, of what use are they, when, at the first word addressed 
me by a stranger, I always shut them up tight, in my embarrass- 
ment ? ” 

“I have noticed that bad habit of yours,” said Elsie, raising 
her head to look her friend in the face. “And others have 
noticed it also. Do you remember that evening Mr. Law was 
introduced to you at our house? Well, he came over tome 
afterwards, saying, ‘Am I a very stupid fellow, Miss Elsie? 
or why is it that, in the midst of what was to me a very interest- 


58 


o’er moor and fen. 


ing conversation, your friend Miss Marston suddenly went to 
sleep ? * ” 

At this story Nellie burst into a merry laugh, which was so 
infectious that Elsie also laughed despite herself. 

“ There comes the sunshine at last,” said Nellie, gayly, 
adding, with a loving kiss, “ you ought never to cry, dear, you 
look so lovely when you smile. ’ ’ 

“ Flatterer ! ” said Elsie, nestling close to her friend, a feel- 
ing of penitence creeping over her for the way she had treated 
her. “Why do you pet me so?” she added; “I am such a 
cross old thing that you would do better to box my ears.” 

“You are a precious pet when you are good,” said Nellie, 
fondling her, “but you are a trifle impatient when anything 
goes contrary to your wishes. Your anger is short-lived, how- 
ever, so I have learned not to heed it, but wait for the revulsion 
of feeling which is certain to follow, sooner or later. You think 
I acted for the best now, dear, don’t you? ” 

“You were, as you always are, quite right,” replied Elsie; 
“lama wicked wretch to abuse you as I do sometimes, for I 
always feel that I am in the wrong, but cannot bear to acknowl- 
edge it.” 

“There! let us say no more about it,” said Nellie. “We 
are wasting precious time by such idle conversation, and our 
hours together will, alas ! be too few. What shall I do, dear, 
without you? You will find me a confirmed misanthrope when 
you return. I shall creep so far into my shell, that it will- be 
impossible to find me again.” 

“ No, you shall not,” said Elsie ; “ I will not let you ; for I 
expect to have two letters a week from you, regularly, during 
my absence, and shall scold you fearfully if I detect in them 
any such tendency. I must rely on you for home news, for 
Maude is a wretched correspondent. ’ ’ 


o’er moor and fen. 


59 


“I will write you everything, you may depend upon it,” 
said Nellie, “even to the shade of le beau cousin' s neck-tie, 
and how the green and yellow melancholy caused by your ab- 
sence becomes him.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Elsie, blushing, however, a very rosy red. 
“ What is le beau cousin to me?” 

“A great deal, if I may judge from your letters,” replied 
Nellie, “ every one of which made honorable mention of him.” 

“ Oh, those were written over two months ago,” said Elsie, in 
confusion, “ and affairs stand very differently with us now from 
what they did then,” and she heaved a deep sigh. 

“Indeed ! ” said Nellie. “Is two months such a very long 
time for you to remain constant to one man? ” 

“I am not the inconstant one,” said Elsie. 

“ Then I am to infer that he is, am I ? ” said Nellie. “ Excuse 
my frankness, but I do not believe a word of it. No man 
could be such a fool. Let me hear all about the trouble, for I 
am sure there must be some mistake.” 

Thus urged, Elsie told her tale without reservation, and 
finishing with a repetition of Roy’s last speech to her, awaited 
anxiously her friend’s opinion of the case. Nellie remained 
silent for some moments, and then said slowly : 

“ I never heard anything so outrageous.” 

“As his treatment of me?” said Elsie, eagerly; “ was it 
not unmanly? ” 

“As your treatment of him, my dear,” quietly replied her 
friend. 

“Nellie ! what can you mean ? ” exclaimed Elsie, in surprise. 

“Just this,” she replied gravely, “that you have, as .usual, 
jumped to a conclusion in regard to your cousin’s behavior 
without giving the subject any reflection, and treated him as a 
culprit before you knew whether or not he was really to blame.” 


6o 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ Why did he shun me, if he cared anything about me ? ” said 
Elsie ; “ actions speak louder than words.” 

“Why did you not ask him that question?” said Nellie; 
“ he would doubtless have given you a satisfactory answer, in 
that case, and a great deal of pain have been saved you 
both.” 

“ Do you suppose that I would stoop to question him? ” said 
Elsie, indignantly; “let him take himself elsewhere if he will. 
Who cares? I should like to know.” 

“You do,” said Nellie, quietly. 

“I don't” cried Elsie, now thoroughly angry again. 

“Come, come,” said Nellie, “you must keep your temper, 
my dear, if I am to be of any use. I did not insinuate that you 
would die of a broken heart if your cousin transferred his 
affections ; I only intended to say that I did not believe that 
such was the case, and to suggest that you had acted hastily in 
repelling his confidence, which might have set everything 
straight. You must have tried his patience very severely, when 
he answered you so quickly, and probably he now thinks of you 
as a ridiculous, hasty child.” 

“I should not like that,” said Elsie, quickly; “I do not 
wish him to think ill of me.” 

“ Then you will confess to him that you have been hasty, 
dearest, will you not?” said Nellie, earnestly; “and give him 
an opportunity to explain matters. So much trouble might be 
saved in this world if people would only confess when they are 
in the wrong, and ask explanations of enigmatical actions on 
the part of their friends.” 

“ Your advice comes too late,” said Elsie, in a tone of regret ; 
“ he is too angry with me now to explain anything.” 

“I do not know him personally, it is true,” said Nellie, 
reflectively ; “but he is not worth much if he does not meet 


o’er moor and fen. 


6 1 


you half-way, and pour out a torrent of explanations as soon as 
you give him a word of encouragement. ” 

“ You take a great deal of trouble to plead his cause,” said 
Elsie, sharply; “ perhaps he has employed you to act as peace- 
maker. ’ * 

“ When I do not even know him by .sight,” exclaimed Nellie, 
flushing at this unworthy suspicion. “ Come, Elsie,” she con- 
tinued, “ I think we had better postpone this subject for 
another time ; you are evidently in a quarrelsome mood, and I 
do not choose that you should quarrel with me on the eve of 
our separation. Let us go down-stairs,” and so saying she 
rose from her seat, and, undetained by Elsie, left the room. 

Elsie remained out of sorts for the rest of the afternoon and 
evening, which passed drearily enough for every one, as nature, 
sympathizing with Elsie’s mood, opened her floodgates upon 
the earth, inundating it with tears, and uttering her com- 
plaints in angry growls of thunder. 

The sailing party had of course been broken up by the storm, 
and a general gloom had settled over the company assembled 
in the parlor after dinner, so that they were quite ready to dis- 
perse to their rooms at an early hour, and were all gone by ten 
o’clock with the exception of Maude, who still sat and watched 
beside the window for the return of her cousin, who had been 
missing since the morning. A fever of anxiety had oppressed 
her all the evening, owing to his enigmatical words during lunch- 
eon, and she felt that it would be useless to attempt to sleep 
before she had seen him again and had her heart set at rest, 
or her hopes destroyed, as the case might be. 

At a little after eleven, Roy’s step sounded on the gravel 
walk, and then, although she had been waiting for him for so 
long a time, and had repeated to herself a thousand times 
that which she wished to say when he arrived, yet, now he had 
6 


62 


o’er moor and fen. 


come, her courage failed her — the words died upon her lips — 
and shrinking back into the shadow, she endeavored to escape 
observation. 

But Roy had seen her, or rather had seen some one, and 
in the indistinct light mistook her for her sister. His heart 
throbbed with pleasure as he hastened into the parlor, under the 
impression that Elsie, repentant for her rude behavior, had re- 
mained up after the others to give him the desired interview. 

“Elsie!” he exclaimed, in a tone of suppressed delight, 
which sent a pang to poor Maude’s waiting heart. 

“It is not Elsie,” she exclaimed, bitterly, “it is only I, 
Maude. I am sorry for your disappointment, but as Elsie has 
been comfortably asleep for an hour or more, I fear you must 
put up with me for a substitute.” 

“I mistook you for her in the dark,” said Roy, in confusion. 
“Has every one gone to bed? What kept you up, dear? I 
hope you were not waiting for me? ” and he endeavored to dis- 
tract her attention from himself by an extra show of affection. 

“You appear to have forgotten that you had something to 
tell me,” she said, in a dreary voice, hope dying fast within her 
heart. 

“No,” he said, gently, “I have not forgotten, Maude. 
Indeed, I have thought of nothing else all the afternoon, but I 
doubt if I ought to tell you what I had intended ; on mature 
reflection, it seems to me that it would be better not to offer 
you any explanation, as I cannot be perfectly open with you.” 

“ And why can you not be frank with me as you always have 
been heretofore?” asked Maude. “You used to tell me every- 
thing until Elsie took my place.” 

For a moment Roy remained speechless, almost stunned by 
the suddenness of the attack ; and then, collecting himself has- 
tily, he said : 


o’er moor and fen. 


63 

‘ ‘Elsie has not taken your place, Maude, nor ever can. 
Have I ever confided in her as I have in you ? Have you not 
been my friend always? You must not mistake the motive of 
my reticence ; it is not because I no longer trust you, for there 
is no woman in the world in whom I would sooner confide any- 
thing concerning myself ; but the explanation you seek could not 
be made without implicating others, and that I feel I have no 
right to do. Will you not excuse me then, dear, from any con- 
fession on the subject, and treat the whole affair as though it 
had not occurred ? It is asking a great deal of you, I know, but 
is it too much?” and taking her two hands in his, he looked 
down at her with one of his most winning smiles. 

“No,” murmured Maude, yielding without an effort to the 
influence he exercised over her. “Nothing that you ask can 
be too much ; my friendship for you can stand any test. ’ ’ 

“I believe it can,” said Roy, with deep feeling. “You are 
a true friend, Maude ; may I always prove worthy of you, dear,” 
and stooping, he pressed a brother’s kiss upon her forehead. 

For a moment or two they remained in silence, and then 
Maude, collecting her scattered senses, rose to retire, and 
uttering a faint good-night, left the room in a dream, all 
suspicions set at rest by the touch of Roy’s lips, for the kiss, 
which had been given so lightly, and meant with him so little, 
had seemed to her a solemn pledge of love, which should be 
hers, and hers only, whilst life should last. 

She had but reached the staircase on the way to her room, 
when Roy again stood beside her. 

“ Maude,” he said, in a low voice, “do not allow any one 
to poison your mind against me. You are the only friend I 
have in the world ; do not desert me. ’ ’ 

“I will not,” she replied, calmly. 

“ Here,” he said, suddenly taking something from his pocket, 


6 4 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


“wear this always to remember this night by, and the promise 
you have just made me,” and as he spoke he threw around her 
neck the chain purchased in the morning for Elsie. “ Remem- 
ber ! ” he said, “my friend, through good and evil report.” 

“Your friend forever,.” she whispered, as she hurried away 
to hide her agitation. 


CHAPTER VII. 


A SPIDER BEGINS TO SPIN. 

“ Love is a torment of the mind, 

A temper everlasting, 

And Jove hath made it of a kind 
Not well, nor full, nor lasting."’ 


WEEK passed away. The next day but one before Elsie’s 



l \ departure had arrived, and the family were gathered 
together upon the grassy lawn, making the most of her who was 
to leave them so soon, when “Mr. Strathmore” was announced, 
and immediately appeared upon the scene, accompanied by , 
Miss De Luce, who, encountering him in the hall, had volun- 
teered to be his guide hither. 

“ I have not come to pay a visit at this unseasonable hour, 
ladies,” he said, after the usual morning greetings had been 
exchanged ; “ but I wished to secure your approbation of a 
scheme that has suggested itself to my mind, for honoring Miss 
Elsie’s last day among us, and feared that I should not find 
you all at home if I waited untiLthe proper hour for visiting.” 

“Oh, you are not too early for us,” replied Elsie, smiling; 
“we breakfasted two hours ago, at least.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


65 


“Ah, so much the better for me then,” said Strathmore; 
“ for after breakfast one is much more inclined to give a favor- 
able answer to a suitor than before. To the point, therefore. 
Ladies, you behold before you an audacious man, who hopes to 
induce you all to accept for to-morrow the homely hospitality 
of a poor bachelor, and honor Strathmore Park with your pres- 
ence. I propose to give a garden party in honor of Miss 
Elsie, and as I know little or nothing of such things, I must 
throw myself on your mercy and ask your assistance in my 
arrangements.” 

“Oh, how perfectly charming,” exclaimed the girls, with 
one accord, and, clapping her hands, Elsie danced about like a 
pleased child. 

“We must have tables on the lawn, Mr. Strathmore,” cried 
one. 

“ We must have some music to dance to,” exclaimed another. 

“You shall have everything you desire,” said Strathmore, 
courteously; “if you will only be good enough to suggest, I 
will see that your plans are fully carried out.” 

“ We must see -the place first,” said Annida, “ or we cannot 
judge of its resources.” 

“Exactly what I thought myself on my way here,” replied 
Strathmore; “I therefore took the liberty of bringing my 
yacht, in the hope that you would all sail home with me, and 
survey the scene of your labors. ’ * 

“Nothing could be better,” they cried in a breath, and a 
few moments later they stood at the water’s edge awaiting the 
boat from the yacht to take them on board. 

The embarkation was easily accomplished, and soon a care- 
less, merry party was floating 4 0wn th e stream. 

“And now for the invitations,” said Elsie, gleefully, as the 
white sails of the “ Saunterer ” filled with the morning breeze, 
6* E 


66 


o’er moor and fen. 


and she swept over the water like a bird. “ We can make out 
a list as we sail, and save a great deal of valuable time.” 

“ I have noted down a few persons besides those of your own 
party,” said Leonard; “and if they meet with your approval, 
you have only to add any friends of your own whom you wish 
to invite,” and he handed Elsie a slip of paper, on which were 
written a number of names, which she rapidly ran over, in a 
low voice, to herself. 

“But, Mr. Strathmore,” she said, when she had come to the 
end, “ you have no married lady on the list ; mamma will not 
let us come without a chaperon.” 

Mr. Strathmore looked blank. 

“Will not your mother herself take charge of the party?” 
he said, at length. 

“Poor, darling mamma,” said Elsie, laughing, “what would 
she do with herself at a garden party ? ” 

“She might come, though,” said Maude, reflectively, “if 
there was any literary ‘ lion ’ to be seen. Mr. Strathmore, have 
you no poet or romance writer that you could offer as an in- 
ducement ?’ * 

“ None that I can call to mind just at present,” said the 
young man, looking crestfallen at this huge hillock in the way 
of his success. 

“I have it,” exclaimed Elsie, clapping her hands: “you 
are going to invite Bob Stevenson, are you not? ” 

“ I shall be very happy to see Miss Bob,” said Strathmore. 

“Well, then, tell her father to bring her,” said Elsie, 
triumphantly, “and thus ‘kill ever so many birds with one 
stone.’ ” 

“But will he come, do you think?” asked Leonard, doubt- 
fully. 

“ fie is certain to, if you mention that you are going to 


o’er moor and fen. 


67 


have anything to eat,” said Jack, laughing. “By Jove,” he 
added, “ mother and old Stevenson ! What a jolly team they 
will make ! ” and no one could, resist a smile at the suggestion. 

This difficulty being surmounted, they soon made out the list 
of invitations, and so merrily passed the time that they could 
scarcely believe they had arrived at “Strathmore,” when the 
yacht anchored, and the little boat was once more let down to 
convey them to the shore. 

It was a half-hour’s sail to the Park, and it had proved so 
charming, that it was unanimously voted, as they left the 
“ Saunterer’s ” side, that the guests should be transported 
thither in her the following day, instead of driving over in 
carriages, as had at first been suggested. 

Leonard Strathmore welcomed his guests to his homestead 
with the air of a “ prince of the blood ” receiving ambassadors 
in his ancestral halls, and watched eagerly for the effect upon 
Elsie of all his grandeur. But he strove in vain to detect the 
slightest admiration in her words or looks, for, so accustomed 
was she to elegance, and so absorbed in the projected garden 
party, that she simply looked upon the Park as she might have 
upon any public garden under the same circumstances, with 
the sole view of adapting it to suit the purpose. 

He took her to the summit of a high hill which commanded 
the finest view on the island, and she simply pronounced it a 
fine situation from which to send up a balloon, or set off fire- 
works. The lake, on which floated stately swans, was deeply 
bewailed as being very much in the way of the croquet ground ; 
and when at last he conducted her to the most beautiful spot on 
the place, a natural bower formed of leafy trees and climbing 
vines, on a rock overhanging the river, and, seating her on a 
rustic seat, threw himself on the grass at her feet, she remarked 
that it was exactly the position to suit the “band,” and eagerly 


68 


o’er moor and fen. 


inquired the number of musicians he would have. He became 
disgusted at her want of appreciation, and grew sulkily silent, 
only speaking when politeness required, and at the first oppor- 
tunity escaped altogether from her society, feeling both indig- 
nant and aggrieved that the attractions of the party should be 
so superior to his own, and half tempted to believe that Elsie 
had been flirting with him. 

“ If she has been trifling with me all this time,” he muttered 
to himself, “ she shall repent it, as sure as my name is 
Leonard Strathmore. ’ ’ 

He walked on hurriedly towards the house, intending to order 
some refreshments for his guests, but his attention was suddenly 
arrested by a graceful figure standing upon the terrace, and ap- 
parently lost in admiration of the surrounding scene. 

It was Annida De Luce, who had been making the most of 
her time, and had not only been over the grounds, but had also 
thoroughly investigated the house, and was now standing with 
eyes fixed on the prospect, to be sure, but with thoughts busy 
in the effort to discover why it was that Leonard Strathmore’s 
wealth and position had been heretofore concealed from her. 
No effort had been made to keep her in ignorance, and her 
want of knowledge was simply owing to accident, but judging 
others by herself, this she could not believe, and her soul was 
filled with indignation at the supposition that Elsie had con- 
nived at it for her own ends. How provoking it was to think 
how little attention she had paid the owner of all this grandeur, 
during his constant visits at Beechcroft, owing to the fact that 
she had supposed him to be of no importance; and had 
allowed Elsie to appropriate him without an effort to prevent 
it, although he had paid his first visits to herself, having 
made her acquaintance previous to her introduction into her 
uncle’s family, whilst travelling among the mountains some 


o’er moor and fen. 


69 


summers before. Oh, how she longed to call her own, the 
place where she now stood. How proudly she 'could fulfil her 
duties as mistress of Strathmore Park. Who could have 
dreamed that this insignificant creature had so much in his 
power to bestow? How artfully Elsie had behaved throughout 
the whole affair, and what a dupe she had been. Was it too 
late to be revenged upon her ? might she not win the man back 
again, by a carefully acted part ? The game was worth playing, 
with such a prize to be won ; and then her mind went back to 
her first acquaintance with Leonard, and she carefully conned 
over every word of his that she could remember complimentary 
to herself, and every act of attention which she had coldly re- 
jected, when, staff in hand, and with no insignia of wealth 
about him, she had mistaken him for a common adventurer. 
Could he be made to forget that, there was still hope for her ; 
and she had set herself to work to map out a plan of action 
which might accomplish the desired result, when the young 
man himself appeared before her, and hesitatingly asked if there 
was anything he could do for her. She returned a gracious 
negative, adding, with a sweet smile, “I am lost in admiration 
of your Park, Mr. Strathmore. How beautifully everything is 
appointed. I never saw a place that captivated me so entirely ; 
you must have a great deal of taste.” 

Leonard, who had always been rather afraid of Miss De Luce, 
and who retained a very lively recollection of various snubs 
that he had received from her, was very much flattered by her 
remarks, but only replied, with an affectation of indifference, 
that he believed it was a rather nice place, and then waited for 
what she should say next, to give him a clue to her thoughts. 

“It is more than nice,” she exclaimed, “it is perfectly 
charming. How can you ever bear to leave it ? I could be 
content to pass the rest of my days on this spot where we are 
standing.” 


70 


o’er moor and fen. 


“But it is very lonely,” replied the young man; “I have no 
family, now, you know. The only brother I had, the one to 
whom this place belonged, died last year, leaving me his heir, 
it is true, but alone in the world.” 

“ But you have friends, have you not? ” said Annida. 

“ Yes,” he replied; “ but it is a great bore to entertain much, 
with no lady to do the honors of the house.” 

“Then you must marry,” said Annida, laughing; “that is 
the best advice I can give you under the circumstances.” 

“Certainly,” he replied, with an affected simper, “ and you 
may be sure I will follow it when I can get any one to have 
me.” 

“ I should not think you would find much difficulty on that 
score,” replied Annida, with an arch smile. “ Not many girls 
would refuse to be mistress of Strathmore Park, not to speak of 
their interest in the owner.” 

“Do you really think that?” said Leonard, thinking wist- 
fully of Elsie. “Your fair cousin does not appear to consider 
either place or proprietor worth consideration, beyond the part 
they are to perform in to-morrow’s festivities.” 

“ Oh, Elsie is a spoiled beauty,” replied Annida, “ and loves 
to torment those in her power. She saw that you valued her 
opinion above every one’s, and therefore she determined not to 
admire anything.” 

“You surprise me,” said Leonard, gravely; “I had no idea 
that such was her disposition. I have always supposed her to 
be a pretty, guileless child, whose desire was to please every 
one.” 

“Elsie a guileless child !” said Annida, with a soft laugh; 
“ what discerning creatures you men are ! However, you are 
not to blame,” she added, quickly; “ how could you know her 
any better? If you had happened to be, like myself, one of her 


o’er moor and fen. 


71 

poor relations, then, indeed, you might have had an opportu- 
nity of seeing her real character.” 

These last words were spoken so bitterly that Leonard raised 
his eyes quickly to the speaker’s face, and read thereon such 
pain and misery, that he immediately became interested in her 
and tried to draw her out. 

“ Surely she does not treat you unkindly,” he said. “ Are you 
not happy at your uncle’s? ” 

“No, I am not treated unkindly in the general acceptance 
of the term,” replied Annida, looking drearily before her, 
“and they give me plenty to eat and drink, if that constitutes 
happiness, but — ” and then she paused, finishing the sentence 
with a long-drawn sigh. 

“But what? ” inquired Strathmore, becoming still more in- 
terested ; “ will you not complete your sentence ? ” 

“No; it is of no use complaining,” replied Annida; “and 
why should I weary you with my troubles, or tell tales of my 
cousin, with whom you are already more than half in love,” 
she added, laughing. 

“ So much the more reason that I should know the truth con- 
cerning her,” said Leonard, gravely. “ Let me beg of you to 
continue your remarks.” 

“ Not I,” replied Annida, gayly ; “ I know human nature too 
well ; you would get all the information out of me that you 
wished, and, if it did not please you, be furiously angry with 
me afterwards ; besides which, before twenty-four hours had 
passed, you would have confided it all to Elsie, and I should 
be obliged to pack my trunk and leave by the next train, which 
would not suit me at all.” 

“You dome injustice,” began Leonard; but he was inter- 
rupted by the appearance of the rest of the party coming 
towards them, accompanied by Roy, who had been sent over 


72 


o’er moor and fen. 


by his uncle in the carriage to bring them home, and with an 
au revoir , he shook hands, and took leave of all his guests, 
mentally resolving, however, to see Annida again as soon as 
possible. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


SCIENCE AT A FETE. 


In summer, when the days were long, 


On dainty chicken, snow-white bread, 
We feasted with no grace but song; 


We plucked the strawberries, ripe and red, 
In summer, when the days were long.” 



HE next day was all that the most fastidious person could 


have desired for a pleasure party. A bright, beautiful 
morning, yet with some clouds in the sky, which softened the 
heat of the sun’s rays, and a charming breeze, not heavy enough 
to disarrange the pretty toilets of the ladies, but quite sufficient 
to send the “ Saunterer ” along at a good rolling pace. 

“ Is our party all assembled ? ” inquired Leonard Strathmore, 
anxiously, as, the hour for departure having arrived, his guests 
stood upon the beach awaiting the return of the “ Dragon Fly,” 
which had already taken a boat-load to the yacht. 

“Did the Stevensons go in the first boat?” asked Jack. 
“ If not, thev are just coming, for I see a crazy-looking vehicle 
bowling down the hill at a frightful rate, which bears a striking 
resemblance to the old gentleman’s ‘one-horse shay.’ ” 

It was ascertained that the Stevensons had not gone in the 
first boat ; the second boat-load, therefore, awaited impatiently 
the arrival of the remarkable equipage approaching them. 


o’er moor and fen. 


73 

It came at last, and Jack, springing up, blithely opened the 
door, calling out : 

“Look alive there! we ’re in a hurry,” and received Mr. 
Stevenson in his arms, who smiled blandly upon him, in return 
for his civility. ' 

“ Where is Bob?” the young man ejaculated, as to his con- 
sternation he perceived that Mr. Stevenson was alone. 

“Thank you, my boy; very kind, indeed, of you to take so 
much trouble for an old gentleman,” replied that worthy per- 
son, smiling still more graciously than before. “ I hope you are 
not waiting for me?” he added, approaching the boat, and 
addressing its occupants, with a deprecating inclination of his 
head. 

“For you and your daughter, sir,” said Mr. Strathmore, as he 
assisted him to get in. “ Where is she? ” 

“ My daughter ! ” exclaimed the old gentleman, pausing with 
one leg over the side of the boat, and looking as if he had only 
just become aware that he had a daughter. 

“Yes, sir, Miss Bob — Miss Roberta, where is she to-day? 
Is she not going with us to Strathmore Park ? ’ ’ 

Mr. Stevenson deliberately sat down astride of the boat, and 
taking his chin in his hand, thoughtfully stroked it, saying : 

“ It is very curious — exceedingly remarkable, in fact — but I 
cannot recollect anything about her. I have no idea where she 
is,” and he gave the subject up as an enigma too difficult for 
him to solve. 

“Shall we wait for her?” inquired Leonard, anxiously per- 
plexed. “ Do you think she will be here after awhile? ” 

“Perhaps she will,” said Mr. Stevenson, “who knows? ■ 
Yes, we had better wait,” and with a face once more beaming 
he got entirely into the boat, and settled himself to await 
comfortably his daughter’s expected arrival. 

1 


7 4 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ Get in,” said Jack to Leonard, “ and I ’ll push you off.” 

“ But Miss Stevenson? ” objected Strathmore. “ Her father 
thinks we had better wait for her.” 

“ Confound the old idiot ! ” exclaimed Jack, fiercely. “He 
thinks you had better wait for her to come five miles when he 
has taken the only horse out of the stable. ’ ’ 

“ Do you suppose, then, that she did not intend to come? ” 
inquired Strathmore. 

“ On the contrary, I know that she had set her heart on 
coming,” said Jack. “The old fool has forgotten all about 
her, and driven off without telling her,” he continued, with 
growing indignation. “ I ’ll make an even bet with you that 
she is crying her eyes out at home with disappointment. Poor 
little Bob ! and she has so few sprees. Here, get in and be 
off with you. I ’ll come over by myself when I get in good 
temper again,” and so saying he assisted to push the boat off, 
but before it had grazed the sides of the “ Saunterer,” “ Polly,” 
and “ Dolly,” the two fastest horses in the Von Decker stables, 
were going at full speed across the country, and Master Jack, 
the driver, never drew rein until he reached the Stevensons’ 
door. 

Here he paused, and for the good reason that a step farther 
would have taken horses and carriage over the prostrate form 
of a lad of fourteen, who was lying stretched out upon the 
ground, with a bundle of grass under his head for a pillow, and 
a book in his hand. He was too much absorbed to pay the 
slightest attention to the dangerous proximity of the horses, and 
was only aroused by an energetic poke which Jack administered 
with the whip-handle, saying, as he did so : 

“ Here ! get up, you scamp, and hold my horses for me.” 

The boy instantly sprang to his feet with agility, and a sweet, 
joyous smile played over a remarkably beautiful face, as he 
answered : 


o’er moor and fen. 


7 5 


“ To be sure I will. You have come for Bob, have n’t you? 
That ’s jolly ! You ’re a regular fairy godmother,” and he 
jumped lightly into the wagon. 

4 * Where is Bob! ” asked Jack, as he relinquished the reins 
to the boy. 

“Up there,” he replied, nodding his head towards an upper 
window, “doing penance for her sins. Here, I say, take my 
book along with you, will you?” he shouted, as Jack turned 
into the house, “or I shall begin to read again, and forget all 
about the horses,” and he tossed a well-worn volume of Hans 
Andersen’s tales after Jack’s retreating figure. 

The house was a forlorn old “ tumble-down ” affair, and Jack, 
without difficulty, made his way to the little room where Bob 
sat miserable and tearful, keeping time with her sobs to the 
whirring of her sewing-machine. 

“ Halloo ! ” he exclaimed, as he entered. “ Here ’s a pre- 
cious go. Bob Stevenson turned domestic, and giving up the 
pleasures of a picnic for the more sober delights of a sewing- 
machine.” 

“Why, Jack! ” she exclaimed, with a little scream of sur- 
prise, “ what brought you over here ? I thought the party sailed 
at half-past ten this morning? ” 

“ So they did,” replied Jack, “all but two of them, who are 
going to drive over. There ! hurry up and put your things on, 
for I left August taking care of the horses, and heaven knows 
what he may do if left long alone with them.” 

With a cry of delight, echoed by three or four little boys 
lying around loose in the room, Bob sprang towards the door, 
but returning as quickly she laid her hands on Jack’s shoulders, 
and looking him frankly in the face, exclaimed, with quivering 
lips and eyes full of moisture : 

“Jack, you ’re the very best fellow that ever lived,” and off 


o’er moor and fen. 


76 

she flew again like a shot out of a gun, leaving Jack a prey to 
the young Stevensons, who instantly fell upon him, all talking 
at once. 

“ Poor old Bob! I’m ever so glad you came for her,” ex- 
claimed one. 

“ She ’d have cried her eyes out before long, if you had n’t/’ 
remarked another. 

“ Was n’t it confoundedly mean in the governor to go off and 
leave her? ” interposed a third. 

“ How did he come to do it? ” asked Jack. 

“How does he ever come to do anything ?” said August, 
suddenly appearing in the doorway. “ He had a big rock on 
his brain, I suppose, for the old cove drove right out of the gate 
before our eyes, as we sat on the porch with Bob, all ready 
dressed waiting for him to appear.” 

“Why didn’t you call to him? ” said Jack. 

“ Call to him ! ” repeated August. “ Why, my dear fellow, we 
ruined our lung power forever — we shouted in every key, we ran 
half a mile after the carriage throwing old shoes and brickbats 
at it, and all the time we could see the old gentleman sitting 
inside smiling like several May morns, but he never saw or 
heard anything that was going on around him. Tom ’s hold- 
ing the horses,” he added, abruptly, “so please give me my 
book.” 

Bob now appeared, ready dressed, and looking radiantly 
happy, and they were soon en route , flying along at great speed. 

An hour’s good driving brought them to the Park gates, and 
soon Bob found herself the centre of an eager questioning group, 
whose curiosity she found it difficult to satisfy without compro- 
mising her father, which she was too loyal and affectionate to 
do ; she therefore endeavored to make her way to him kt once, 
saying : 


o’er moor and fen. 


77 


“ I must go to papa and relieve his anxiety concerning me. 

It was so foolish in me to be out of the way when he left home, 
was it not ? I trust 'he has not been much worried by my stu- 
pidity.” 

If one might judge by the placid contentment of his face as . 
she approached, he had not suffered any over-anxious feelings 
to trouble him, and his expression of mild surprise when she 
said : 

“Here I am at last, papa, all safe and sound,” was inex- 
pressibly amusing to the bystanders, and their merriment was 
further increased by his saying in reply to this announcement : 

“ Certainly, my dear ; why should n’t you be ? ” 

“ I thought you might have been feeling uneasy as to how I 
would get here by myself,” said Bob, in confusion. 

“ Uneasy, my dear, when you came over in the same carriage 
with me? ” answered her father, giving her a reproachful look. 

“ Now, just think what nonsense you are talking. I never saw 
such a forgetful child,” he continued, turning to Mrs. Von 
Decker with a benevolent smile. “ Why we made the arrange- 
ment last night, and I drove her over only a few hours ago, and 
yet she has forgotten it.” 

The last speech was too much for the self-control of the 
merry group surrounding him, and with one accord they burst 
into a hearty laugh, during which poor Bob, overcome with 
mortification, turned away, and, making good her escape, 
rushed headlong down the first garden path she saw, stumbling 
over Jack as she suddenly turned a corner, who was coming 
back from the stable, whither he had taken the horses. 

“Halloo, Bobby,” he exclaimed; “don’t knock the breath 
out of a fellow’s body. Where are you running to in such a 
hurry?” 

“I don’t know, I don’t care,” exclaimed the poor child, 
7 * 


73 


o’er moor and fen. 


raising a pathetic, tear-stained face to his. “ Oh, Jack, Jack, it 
is so dreadfully hard to have - nobody who cares what becomes 
of one ! Papa has never given me a thought all the morning, 
and has even forgotten that he did not bring me with him when 
he drove over, and they are all laughing about it over there,” 
she continued, passionately. ‘ ‘ They think it a good joke that 
I, who am motherless, should be worse than fatherless, and their 
mockery is breaking my heart.” 

And forgetful of everything save the fact that she had found 
a friend, Bob rested her head against Jack’s shoulder, and began 
to cry bitterly. The young man absolutely trembled with indig- 
nation, and a torrent of invectives rose to his lips, but his good 
sense told him that sympathy would but confirm Bob’s unhappi- 
ness, so, making a wry face, he swallowed his wrath, and taking 
her hand in his, said cheerfully : 

“There, there, Bobby, you are making a mountain out of a 
mole-hill. Because a man is absent-minded, it does not follow 
that he is wanting in natural affection,” and seating himself at 
the foot of a tree, he drew her down on the grass beside him, 
and deliberately proceeded to prove, to her satisfaction, that, 
despite appearances, her father was really a devoted and adoring 
parent, and when his efforts had been crowned with success, and 
the smiles and dimples had returned to her face, he conducted 
her back in triumph to the rest of the party, who were just pre- 
paring to sit down to luncheon. 

The table was very prettily laid out, with shining silver, 
beautifully cut glass, and superb bunches of flowers, whilst the 
trees surrounding it were decked with flags and streamers, which 
gave the whole a very gay appearance. 

Mrs. Von Decker, of course, presided at the feast, and on 
her right hand sat Mr. Stevenson, whilst the young people 
ranged themselves according to their own fancy — some at the 


o’er moor and fen. 


79 

table, but many more upon the velvety .turf, which crowned 
the summit of the eminence on which they were. 

Leonard Strathmore felt it incumbent on him to be attentive 
to Elsie, as the queen of the feast, but he proved a very stupid 
companion, for he could not banish from his memory Annida 
De Luce’s mysterious words of the day previous, and his 
thoughts were centred upon the explanation he hoped to 
receive from her before the day was over. 

Annida guessed very accurately what was passing in his mind, 
but with native genius she avoided all his approaches, thereby 
greatly increasing his curiosity and forcing him to an eager 
pursuit of herself. 

Elsie also was distrait , and conversation between them 
languished lamentably. She had long since repented her mis- 
understanding with Roy, and earnestly desired a reconciliation 
before her departure ; but as this, her last day at home, wore 
away, and so far from seeming to share her feelings, he appeared 
determined to avoid her, hope gradually faded from her heart, 
and she became sad and silent. 

Eleanor Marston was no better off in regard to her compan- 
ion, for Arthur Leighton, her cavalier, was rendered utterly in- 
capable of attending to her conversation, by the “by-play” 
going on between Annidg. and Leonard, and in fact the only 
well-assorted couple of the party was Bob and Jack, who formed 
the life and centre of a merry group seated on the grass at the 
head of the table. 

The feast was drawing to a close, when Jack’s attention was 
suddenly arrested by a conversation between his mother and 
Mr. Stevenson, and as he had been anxiously awaiting the 
effect of the latter’s remarkable opinions upon the former, he 
instantly arose from the recumbent position he had assumed, 
and hastily whispering in Bob’s ear, “'Hist! the fun is be- 


So 


o’er moor and fen. 


ginning,” they both concentrated their attention upon the 
dialogue. v 

“ I agree with you entirely,” Mrs. Von Decker was saying, 
but the puzzled expression of her countenance belied her words. 
“ Of course,” she continued, “as we were made of the dust of 
the ground, the dust must be older than we are: Six thousand 
years ago,” she continued, reflectively. “How impossible it 
is for human thought to bridge the space of time, and accurately 
determine what manner of man was Adam. ’ ’ 

“Adam ! ” exclaimed Mr. Stevenson, looking in surprise at 
the lady. “ Is it possible, my dear madam, that an enlightened 
woman like yourself can credit such nursery tales as those 
written in Genesis? Do you indeed believe that the human 
race is descended from an original pair, who sprang into exist- 
ence in a single day, perfect in every part, even as we are? 
Nature forbids the supposition, madam. She works slowly 
and by rule, nor performs such sudden miracles. When you 
watch the growth of a tree or flower, or the gradual rising of a 
field of grain, does it not strike you as improbable that the 
world should have become what it now is in six days, when it 
takes so long for a minute portion of it to come to perfection ? 
There was no first man, madam, any more than there was a 
first tree, and the creation of the world was not limited to six 
days.” 

He brought his hand down forcibly upon the table to empha- 
size his words, and in doing so swept a delicate wineglass off 
the board, which, falling to the ground, broke into pieces. In 
the presence of this misfortune, poor Mr. Stevenson’s eloquence 
was hushed, and, leaning back in his chair, he mopped his face 
with his handkerchief, and tnuttered some feeble apologies, look- 
ing meanwhile the picture of distress. 

Poor Mrs. Von Decker also looked distressed, but from 
another cause. 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


8l 


“The race must surely have had a beginning,” she mur- 
mured, fanning herself violently, and looking sorely perplexed. 
“Iam sure I did not grow like a tree or a flower.” 

“You are right, madam, in your first remark,” said Mr. 
Stevenson, like a war-horse at the sound of a trumpet, forgetting 
his confusion at the renewal of his favorite subject. “ There was 
certainly a time in the history of the world when man did not 
exist. There was a time, indeed, when the world did not exist, 
and there was nothing in space save atoms ; and from these did 
all proceed. Infinite in number, various in form, they struck 
together, and the lateral motions and whirlings which thus arose 
were the beginning of worlds. At first the globe was but a 
molten mass ; in time, however, as it cooled, came vegetation, 
followed by insect life and animal existence, until, from grade 
to grade, man, nature’s crowning glory, was reached. And was 
all this accomplished in six days? The beauty and marvels 
which surround us, are they the growth of six thousand years ? 
Ah, no, madam, aeons, embracing untold millions of years, 
could scarcely have sufficed for this great work. Ages on ages 
before you or I were in existence, this earth pursued its even 
course, and for ages on ages after we are gone it will continue 
to exist; whilst you and I, mingling with our native dust — 
atoms once more and coalescing with our kind — may rise again 
in the waving grass, the insect life, for nature repeats herself 
! forever. ’ ’ 

Down came the old gentleman’s hand a second time, and 
over went another glass, and the fear lest “ Stevenson ” should 
emulate “nature” and “repeat himself forever” to the detri- 
ment of the crockery, began to take possession of the public 
| mind. 

“ I beg pardon,” he said, apologetically. “ No, don’t bring 
me another,” he exclaimed, waving the approaching waiter 

F 


82 


o’er moor and fen. 


from him; “they are so easily demolished, I should prefer 
something stronger if you have it.” 

“Strathmore,” said Jack, seriously, “sweep up the ‘ atoms,’ 
old fellow. Who knows but you may thus collect the remains 
of somebody’s ancestors, or preserve the souls of future poets, 
statesmen, or philosophers.” 

“ ‘The atoms of the soul,’ says Democritus, ‘are free, smooth, 
and round, like those of fire,’ ” exclaimed Mr. Stevenson, once 
more mounting his hobby. “ These are the most mobile of all 
atoms. They interpenetrate the whole body, and in their mo- 
tions the phenomena of life arise. ’ ’ 

“ But this is horrible ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Von Decker, grow- 
ing more and more confused ; “ this mingling of atoms troubles 
me. If there is no power to guide their combinations, what is 
to prevent my remains from coalescing with those of my nearest 
neighbor ? in which case I might be buried an innocent woman 
and rise a murderer. ’ ’ 

“There is assuredly some guiding power,” said Mr. Steven- 
son, smiling at her novel suggestion ; “and Empedocles, to 
account for these combinations and separations, has introduced 
the idea of love and hate among the atoms.” 

“Bob,” said Jack, with preternatural gravity, “let us write 
a pre-adamite play. Act first, scene first, Chaos. Enter first 
Atom, loquitur. ‘ Adored of my soul, let us combine. ’ Enter 
second Atom, loquitur. ‘Behold, my beloved, I am here.’ 
Tableau vivant, they coalesce. That ought to produce a sen- 
sation in these scientific days.” 

“Do be quiet,” said Bob, “I am dying of ‘suppressed 
emotion,’ and if you hasten my last hours my atoms shall haunt 
you.” 

“And the soul! my dear Mr. Stevenson, the soul!” con- 
tinued the bewildered lady; “what becomes of it under your 
system ? ’ ’ 


o’er moor and fen. 


83 

“Nothing that exists can be destroyed,” said Mr. Steven- 
son; “if you have a soul, madam, it will follow the universal 
law . 1 ’ 

“If I have a soul ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Von Decker, aghast at 
his audacity. 

“ What is the soul ? ” said Mr. Stevenson. “ Is it more than 
life? All nature is alive, why therefore should this soul leave 
its atoms ? ’ * 

“Ah!” cried Mrs. Von Decker, starting aside with a little 
I shriek, as a “ daddy-long-legs ” let himself down from the 
tree, and dropped upon her plate, and she pushed it from her 
with aversion. 

“Wherefore, madam, do you despise this insect?” said Mr. 
Stevenson, gravely. “ Does he not move, has he not life, and 
if life be the soul, how are you and I his superiors ? Let us 
examine the creature.” 

As he spoke he stretched out his hand to seize the insect, 
but it slipped nimbly between his fingers, and then commenced 
a most undignified “daddy hunt ” on the part of the philoso- 
pher, who, despite the peals of merriment his performance was 
exciting, continued to chase it with his long bony fingers, in 
and out among the plates and dishes, until, seeing it about to 
escape him by running off the cloth, he sprang up, and leaning 
over the table brought his hand down forcibly upon it. The 
j victory was his, but the triumph was of short duration, for the 
slender supports under the board gave way beneath his weight, 

| and over went pursuer and pursued with a crash, carrying with 
them knives, forks, bottles, glasses, and the remains of the feast. 


8 4 


o’er moor and fen. 


CHAPTER IX. 

LOVE IN AN ARBOR. 

“ Take, oh, take, those lips away, 

That so sweetly were forsworn ; 

And those eyes, the break of day, 

Lights that do mislead the morn ; 

But my kisses bring again, bring again. 

Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.” 

M R. STEVENSON having been rescued, with much laugh- 
ter and some concern, from his perilous position, and 
proving to be unhurt, with the exception of a few scratches from 
broken crockery, the company with one accord left the scene 
of the disaster, and adjourned to another part of the grounds, 
where the band was playing a prelude to one of Weber’s waltzes. 
Leonard Strathmore now made another effort to obtain a private 
interview with Miss De Luce, but she played with him as a cat 
does with a mouse, without giving him either freedom from his 
suspense, or death to his hopes. 

Elsie, who was becoming more and more unhappy, owing to 
a jealous feeling in regard to Maude, which had been gaining 
ground with her all day, took this opportunity of stealing away 
unobserved from the party, and, running lightly over the grass, 
sought an asylum in the arbor to which Leonard had intro- 
duced her the day before. 

Throwing herself upon the turf, she buried her face in her 
hands, and tried to think, but the excess of her emotion entirely 
overpowered all capacity for thought, and she could do nothing 
but bewail her wretchedness, whilst the salt tears rolled down 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


85 

her pretty round cheeks. She no longer tried to deceive her- 
self in regard to her feelings for her cousin ; she acknowledged 
to her heart now that she loved him dearly, and, with a child’s 
unreasoning passion, she raved against the adverse fate which 
had separated them, and was ready to blame any one, rather 
than herself, for her present misery. 

She wept till she could weep no more, and then sat crouch- 
ing in the shadow of the bushes, listening sadly to the distant 
sound of music and revelry, and wondering if she would ever 
feel light-hearted and happy again. 

Then another important matter claimed her attention, and as 
she dried her tears, she began to think how she could appear 
again in that gay assembly, with her swollen eyes and red 
cheeks, and just as she had come to the conclusion, that having 
no good excuse to offer for them, she must remain where she was 
until she had recovered her usual appearance, she heard, to her 
dismay, voices approaching her place of concealment. Starting 
to her feet she prepared for flight, but retreat was now impossi- 
ble, for the speakers had already reached the entrance of the 
arbor, and she had only just time enough to hastily conceal 
herself behind the rustic seat, when Annida De Luce entered, 
followed by Arthur Leighton. 

The former threw herself upon the seat, and beat an impatient 
tattoo upon the ground with her foot, whilst the latter continued 
to pace up and down before her, with an agitated countenance. 

He was a young man of remarkable personal beauty, his 
features being of a pure Grecian type, his hair a rare golden 
brown, and his eyes a deep blue-gray. He was rather above 
middle height, his figure powerfully though slightly made, and 
as he strode backward and forward the quivering of his under 
lip, and the nervous excitement of his manner, betrayed a dis- 
position at once weak and passionate. 

8 


86 


o’er moor and fen. 


“Well, Annida,” he said, at length, pausing before her, 
“what am I to understand by all this tirade against tyrants? 
that you repent your engagement with me, and withdraw my 
right to comment upon your actions? ” 

“I never gave you any such right,” exclaimed Annida, 
“and I will not be dictated to as though I were already your 
wife. There was an especial agreement between us, if you 
will remember, that until we were actually married, I should be 
free to act as I chose.” 

“ Were you indeed my ‘ wife,' ” said Arthur, with a tender 
emphasis upon the name, “you would never find me dicta- 
torial. Had I any real claim on you, my darling ; were I but 
certain that you were mine, and mine only, you would find in 
me the humblest of slaves; but it is this uncertainty of the 
future that is driving me mad. I well remember the agree- 
ment you speak of, and own the injustice of my reproaches. 
Yet, for the sake of our past love, Annida, have pity on me, 
and grant as a favor that which you have refused as a right. 
Ah, tell me that you will not encourage Leonard Strathmore’s 
attentions,” and throwing himself on the grass at her feet, he 
took her hand in his, and gazed upward with a look of passion- 
ate entreaty. 

“You foolish boy,” she said, and her voice softened as she 
spoke, “how can you be so jealous? What difference can it 
make whom I encourage, when you know that my heart is all 
yours ? Can you not allow me to revenge myself on the world 
for my own miseries, by making others suffer? or have you 
become so philanthropic that you cannot endure the sight of a 
fellow-creature’s disappointment ? ” 

“The disappointments of my fellow-men give me but small 
annoyance,” replied the young man, with a smile. “It is their 
success , Annida, that I fear. Alas, should some one steal from 


o’er moor and fen. 


87 

me the one blessing fate has left — your love — what, my dar- 
ling, could make life endurable?” 

“ And who is there that can do that ? ” said Annida, in a low, 
sweet voice, allowing her hand to stray lovingly over the soft 
fair hair covering the head now resting against her knee. 
“ Who is there in the world that can compare with you, my own 
darling? Do you think that Leonard Strathmore is likely to 
prove a dangerous rival ? ’ ’ and she looked down upon the 
handsome fellow that lay stretched upon the grass before her 
with a proud, defiant smile. 

Truly, in point of appearance, he had not much to fear from 
any man, and much less from poor Leonard, who was certainly 
remarkably plain and unattractive, and feeling this to be the 
case, a smile of pleasure passed over his face as he answered, 
with pardonable vanity : 

“ Leonard is certainly not a beauty; but then he has that to 
bestow which it will take me years to acquire, even if my 
brightest dreams are realized, namely, wealth and position, and 
to a proud woman like yourself, Annida, these are a great deal,” 
and he sighed deeply. 

“But you will have them also some day, darling,” replied 
Annida, in a voice so full of feeling that Elsie scarcely recog- 
nized it; “and it may be, that when that time shall come, 
your own ambition will have been aroused, and you will look 
higher than a poor, penniless girl, like myself.” 

“Trust me for that,” said Arthur; “ my ambition is centred 
in you alone. Ah, my darling, my darling, but for your sake 
I have no desire to rise, and without your love, a throne would 
not suffice for happiness,” and he covered the small fair hands 
with passionate kisses. 

“Hush, hush,” said Annida, softly, as a sudden movement 
on Elsie’s part caused the leaves to crackle behind them. “ Some 


88 


o’er moor and fen. 


one is coming, Arthur; you must be more prudent,” and she 
endeavored to raise him from his recumbent position. 

“ Prudent ! ” he exclaimed, rising to his knees, and fixing a 
burning glance upon her. “ Ah, Annida, cast prudence to the 
winds, and let us love each other before the world.” 

“ Patience, patience,” she whispered, with quivering lips, 
as she stooped her head to his. “ My darling, it is as hard for 
me as for you, but any other course than that which we are 
pursuing would be madness. I love you too much to marry 
you until your fortune is assured.” 

“And you do really love me still? ” said Arthur, earnestly. 

“ I love you now, as I have always done, with my whole 
heart,” she replied, in full, rich tones; “and thus I shall con- 
tinue to love until this world’s troubles are over for me forever. 
Whatever may betide, Arthur, believe this one thing, that I 
have never, and can never, love any other but yourself,” and 
stooping lower still, her lips met his in a long, passionate kiss. 

“Now go,” she exclaimed, suddenly starting to her feet 
and pushing him from her; “I am sure I hear some one 
coming. ’ ’ 

“I am going,” replied the young man, joyously, “and with 
sunshine in my heart.” 

“And you will not be jealous any more?” asked Annida, 
tenderly. 

“If I ever distrust you again, I shall deserve to lose you,” 
he replied; “one more embrace, darling; there, good-bye,” 
and he dashed out of the arbor, without trusting himself to look 
at her again. 

For a moment Annida stood where he had left her, and then 
raising her hands to her head, she pressed them to her throbbing 
temples, saying, in a low, unsteady voice : 

“Good-bye, aye, good-bye forever, Arthur Leighton. 


o’er moor and fen. 


89 


Would to God I could crush you from my heart, as I must 
from my life ; oh, why did perverse fortune give to Leonard 
Strathmore all this wealth, and to you all my love? ” and stagger- 
ing back she fell upon the seat again, covering her face with 
her hands. 

Elsie, very much agitated by the scene she had witnessed, 
now attempted to retire, but light as her step was, Annida heard 
it, and starting up, exclaimed : 

“ Who is there? ” 

“ It is I,” replied Elsie, pausing, and regarding her with a 
curious look. 

“And how long have you been here?” inquired Annida, 
adding, passionately, “could not your dislike find other ex- 
pression than in acting the spy on me?” 

“I have acted the spy upon no one,” replied Elsie, in- 
dignantly. “ I was in the arbor before yourself, and you gave 
me no opportunity to retire. You should look carefully about 
you before you indulge in such interesting scenes.” 

Annida changed color. She saw at once the mistake she had 
made. It would not do to make Elsie angry ; with the infor- 
mation she had gained, she would be too dangerous an 
enemy. 

-“Forgive me, dear,” she said, gently. “I spoke thought- 
lessly ; of course there is no one but myself to blame ; and, if 
I had not been mad with misery, I would have known at once that 
your presence here could do no harm, as you are too honorable 
to make use of information gained in such a way.” 

“ I do not know that,” said Elsie, bluntly. “You seem to 
be acting a double part, and if there is any good to be done by 
it, I shall not hesitate to repeat what I have heard.” 

“But there is nothing to be gained by it,” said Annida, 
quickly, whilst the color receded from her cheeks in her alarm. 

8 * 


9 o 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ You do not understand the case. Promise me that you will, 
at least, not speak of what has taken place here until you have 
heard my explanation. ’ ’ 

“ And suppose you never give me one? ” said Elsie, coldly. 

“But I will; I swear it ! ” exclaimed Annida, rising to her 
feet in her excitement. “ Oh, here comes the rest of the party,” 
she continued, grasping Elsie’s arm, as the sound of approach- 
ing voices fell upon their ears. “ Promise me, oh, for the 
love of heaven, promise me!” 

“ I promise,” replied Elsie, “ but remember that I must have 
the explanation before I leave, and that I do not bind myself 
to keep silence unless I am satisfied ; ” and then further conver- 
sation was prevented by an irruption of merry young people 
who burst in upon them, exclaiming : 

“ Here they are ! here they are ! and both together ! What 
in the world have you two found to talk about that is so inter- 
esting? We have been searching all over the grounds for you. 
The dancing is over, and we are all going to see the balloon 
ascend. Come along at once, for you are keeping every one 
waiting,” and they seized upon the girls, bearing them off in 
triumph. 

And thus the afternoon wore on in revelry and mirth, and as 
the sun sank below the horizon, and the gray twilight clothed 
the earth as with a mantle, a light became visible upon a 
neighboring hillock, and beautiful sky-rockets, Roman candles, 
carrier pigeons, and all description of fire-works, made the sky 
once more bright as day. 

The eager guests sought the best positions from which to 
enjoy this unexpected treat, and remained lost in admiration 
until the end, when, written in letters of fire upon the heavens, 
they read the word “Elsie,” and as it faded from their sight, 
immediately below it “Vale.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


9 * 

“Vale l 1y said Elsie, with tears in her eyes, as the last spark 
died out, and she realized that her last day on Staten Island 
had come to an end. 

“Vale /” murmured Roy, covering his face with his hands, 
lest, despite the darkness, his emotion might be visible to those 
around him, and they should divine the all-absorbing agony 
which had assailed him at the combination of those last two 
words, and the deadly fear which had seized his heart, lest this 
farewell should be on his part forever. Oh, Elsie, Elsie, why 
were you so blind that you did not see his heart was breaking 
with 1 its weight of love ? that one word from you had brought 
him to your feet, a slave forever more? Alas, for that little 
word of peace, so easily spoken, yet so frequently withheld ! 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the host, turning toward his 
guests, “loath as I am to lose your pleasant company, I must 
nevertheless remind you that 1 time and tide wait for no man/ 
and, therefore, if you wish to get home before daybreak, you 
must at once make your preparations to embark.” 

At this announcement every one hurried back to the house 
for the wraps that they had brought with them, and thence to 
the shore, where lay the little “Dragon Fly” in readiness to 
convey them back to the patient “ Saunterer.” 

With mingled feelings our party prepared to return home. 
To some the day had brought unequivocal satisfaction, and 
among these might be numbered Maude, for Roy had never 
left her side the whole day, and had admitted that but for her 
he should not have come at all. 

How could she^ guess the silent misery which he had suffered, 
as he watched Elsie flitting about like a bright butterfly, with a 
word and a smile for every one but himself; and realized how 
far he was from the fulfilment of the hopes that had brought him 
to Beechcroft. Whatever it might have been to others, this day 


92 


o’er moor and fen. 


had been to him one of continuous suffering, and he cared not 
how soon it should end. 

Bob and Jack were perfectly happy, as might have been 
expected, for they always enjoyed everything, being possessed 
of those dispositions which cast care to the four winds and live 
comfortably in a pleasant present, forgetful of past discomforts 
and regardless of those to come. 

Bob had been more than repaid for her mortification early in 
the day, by the attention afterwards paid to her father, when, 
being brought to his senses by his fall, he had put his talents 
and learning to practical use, and made himself agreeable to 
old and young — amusing them by his quaint phrases, and his 
courtly, old-fashioned manners, whilst at the same time impart- 
ing a great deal of useful information in regard to science and 
natural history ; thus winning for himself the respect and 
admiration to which he was at all times entitled, but which was 
often changed into ridicule, owing to his eccentricity and 
absent-mindedness. On the shore he bade the company “ good- 
bye,” for, fearing exposure to the night air on the river, he had 
accepted Jack’s offer of his carriage and horses, and concluded 
to go home by land. 

The night was beautiful, the moon, which had now risen, was 
shedding her effulgent light over hill and dale, and forming a 
silvery line in the wake of the vessel, which, with its white 
wings spread, looked like some shadowy spirit of the deep, pre- 
paring for flight into a mysterious, moonlit world. 

“ Annida,” whispered Arthur, as he handed her into the boat, 
“I dare not trust myself with you to-night. The atmosphere 
is charged with electricity. My blood seems on fire. I should 
certainly do some mad thing did I accompany you on this 
moonlight sail, so I am going to sober myself by driving Mr. 
Stevenson home. God keep you, my darling, and my memory 
green within your heart forever. Good-night.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


93 


“ Good-night,” murmured Annida, in soft, aeolian tones, and 
turning her glowing eyes upon him, she gave him a glance of 
passionate love that burned into his heart forever. 

Through all the doubt, trouble, and mystery that came in the 
days that followed, Arthur remembered that glance ; and as the 
vision of his darling, bathed in the white moonlight, her glorious 
eyes shining with passionate love, came before him in after 
days, he could not help but struggle with his great despair, and 
imagine that his misery was all a dream, and reality — Annida, 
and Annida’s love. 


CHAPTER X. 


CROSS-PURPOSES. 


“ Trifles, light as air, 

Are to the jealous confirmation strong 
As proofs of holy writ.” 


NCE fairly launched upon the watpr, the beauty of the 



night asserted itself, and the merry laughter and the 
quick repartee gave way to a thoughtful silence, whilst con- 
genial spirits strove to be placed near each other, that they 
might uninterruptedly enjoy the pleasure of the scene and the 


hour. 


Roy had instinctively drawn near to Elsie, not with any 
expectation of conversing with her, but that he might feast his 
eyes upon her fair face, which would so soon be beyond his 
gaze ; and Leonard Strathmore, who was seated beside her, had 
taken care that Annida should be placed on his other hand, 


i 


94 


o’er moor and fen. 


determining that she should not again escape him, as she had 
contrived to do all the afternoon. ^ 

With a scornful smile Elsie noticed the arrangement, and 
wondered silently whether Leonard was trying the same game 
upon her that Annida was playing with Arthur; but in the 
midst of these speculations, Roy spoke to her, and she straight- 
way forgot all others but himself. 

“ Have you had a pleasant day ? ” was all that he said, but it 
seemed to Elsie that there was a tremulous eagerness in his voice, 
and she immediately attributed it to the fact that he imagined 
she could not have enjoyed herself without him, so she replied 
quickly : 

“ Yes, thank you ; it has been a day of uninterrupted delight. 
I am so much obliged to Mr. Strathmore for giving me such a 
pleasant farewell ; it will be something to look back upon when 
I am far away. ’ * 

Roy simply bowed his head in answer to her words, and on 
turning towards Mr. Strathmore, she found that he had not 
heard her remark, having moved his chair a little closer to 
Annida, and being absorbed in a low-toned conversation with 
her. With another scornful smile, Elsie moved her own still 
further from his, and entered into an enthusiastic disquisition 
in favor of all picnics, and of this one in particular. 

“And now, Miss De Luce, for your confidence,” Leonard 
was saying, in a tone little above a whisper ; “I hope you have 
not forgotten I am anxiously waiting to hear all about yourself 
and your troubles. ’ ’ 

“ About myself, or about my cousin?” said Annida, with a 
v soft laugh. 

“The one subject includes the other,” he replied; “I wish 
to hear about you both.” 

“You are very kind,” replied Annida, “to take an interest 


o’er moor and fen. 


95 


in me, and I thank you very much for it, but I will not take 
advantage of you, and be wearisome ; I can bear my troubles, 
such as they are, alone, very well.” 

“ And you have nothing then to tell me?” said Leonard, in 
a disappointed tone. 

“Yes, I have a great deal to tell you,” she replied ; “and 
some of it will make you very angry, whilst more of it you will 
not believe ; notwithstanding which, my interest in you is so 
sincere, that I am going to risk yours in me, valuable as it is, 
rather than hold my peace, and see you made a dupe of.” 

“I thank you very much,” said Leonard, flushing slightly, 
“and believe me, your kindness shall not go unrewarded.” 

“ I do not seek reward,” replied Annida; “ for my experience 
of life is, that the more you do for a person the sooner he or she 
forgets you ; but I feel that, in common honesty, I must tell you 
the truth, be the consequences what they may. Are you pre- 
pared to hear some sad revelations ? ’ ’ 

“ Go on,” was Leonard’s answer, but his breathing became 
hard, and he cast an anxious look towards Elsie, who, with head 
inclined to her cousin, was talking, rapidly, and with much 
apparent interest in her subject. 

What she said, could he have heard it, would have set Leon- 
ard’s heart at rest, but all he could comprehend was her glowing 
cheek, her sparkling eye, and a nameless something in her face 
which he had never seen there before. 

A sudden tremor seized him. Could this handsome cousin 
have appropriated the heart he thought his own ? Had Elsie 
been trifling with him — Leonard Strathmore, of Strathmore 
Park, and presumed to use him as a foil to bring this other 
man into bondage ? The very idea was intolerable ; why did 
not Annida speak and put him at ease ? He turned abruptly 
towards her. 


9 5 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ I am listening,” he said ; “ why do you not continue ? ” 

“Because you have divined all that I would say,” said 
Annida, calmly. “You see for yourself that which I would 
have told you.” 

“ Which is?” said Leonard, interrogatively. 

“ That this couple understand each other perfectly; are, in 
fact, affianced lovers ; but the young man is poor, and, there- 
fore, not eligible for a husband. He will do very well for a 
lover , however, if she only marry some idiot, whom she can 
deceive with her ‘ guileless * smiles — some man like Leonard 
Strathmore, whose broad acres she can command by a show of 
that affection which in reality belongs to another man. The 
plan is beautifully arranged. You have slipped your head 
blindly into the noose. Kick away the props, mon ami , and 
launch yourself into matrimony, with a girl who has given her 
whole heart to another.” 

Annida concluded this speech with one of her peculiar laughs, 
and Leonard sat horror-stricken at the picture she presented to 
his view. 

“ I have not put my head in yet,” he muttered. 

“But will do so at the first opportunity,” said Annida, with 
a slight sneer. 

“By heaven, no ! ” exclaimed Leonard, fiercely. “ I am not 
quite a fool, although you have tried to make me out to be 
one.” 

“Here begins my reward,” said Annida, laughing again. 
“You are reviling me already, whilst you are congratulating 
yourself on an escape to which I helped you.” 

“Forgive me,” said Leonard, earnestly. “Indeed, I had 
not a thought of being ungrateful. I shall never forget what 
you have done for me to-night as long as I live, and I will 
gladly serve you in the future, should the time ever come when 
you stand in need of a friend.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


9 7 


“ I stand in need of one now,” said Annida, sadly. “I 
doubt if a woman ever needed one so sorely: Suspicion and 
distrust encompass me on all sides. My own kin have turned 
against me, and by speaking the truth frankly, I have lost even 
your regard, and am utterly alone in the world.” 

“You must not say that,” exclaimed Leonard, eagerly. “I 
never thought more of you than I do at present. Your courage 
and frankness have won my heart forever, and you will never 
be alone whilst I live, and have the power to befriend you.” 

The poison instilled into his mind was working well, and a 
triumphant feeling passed over Annida as she saw how easily 
her victim was falling into her toils. 

“Won’t you sing us something, Mr. Strathmore?” asked 
Elsie’s winning voice, as, turning abruptly from her companion, 
she brought her most beaming smiles to bear upon Leonard. 

“Pray, excuse me this evening,” he replied, nervously. “I 
feel quite hoarse, and — the night air — you know. Perhaps 
Mr. Weston will favor us in my stead.” 

“ Yes, do, Mr. Weston,” exclaimed a chorus of young people. 
“ Sing us something romantic and pathetic, in accordance with 
the beauty of the night.” And as Elsie drew back surprised 
and offended, Roy, stung to the quick by her request to his 
rival, gave vent to his feelings in the words of the old Scotch 
song — 

“ Oh ! had I a cave on some far distant shore, 

Where the winds howl to the waves’ dashing roar, 

There would I weep my woes, 

There seek my lost repose, 

Till death mine eyelids close, 

Ne’er to wake more. 

“ Falsest of womankind, can’st thou declare 
All thy fond plighted vows empty as air ? 

G 


9 


98 


o’er moor and fen. 


To thy new lover hie, 

Laugh o’er thy perjury, 

Then in thy bosom try 

What peace is there ! ” 

Thus sang Roy, with his heart in his voice, and his eyes fixed 
despairingly upon his cousin. Surely these words must bring 
her to a sense of her own misconduct. She would at least 
wince at this home thrust, and he continued to gaze at her 
even after the last cadence of the song had died away, and his 
friends, loud in its praise, were calling for another. 

But there was no look of conscious shame upon Elsie’s face ; 
in fact, the poor child never once thought of appropriating the 
words to herself, but it crossed her mind how suitable they 
were to Annida, and she could not forbear stealing a glance at 
her to see the effect produced. 

Pale and rigid sat Miss De Luce, with her large eyes fixed 
and staring. She was like one spell-bound. Over her heart 
rushed the memory of her lover, in an overwhelming flood. 
Roy Weston was no longer himself, but an avenging angel, and, 
to her distempered vision, it was Arthur Leighton whom she 
saw, and who thus arraigned her before the world for the double 
game she was playing. 

“ Then in thy bosom try 

What peace is there ! ” 

The words echoed and re-echoed in her heart, and cold drops 
of sweat came out upon her brow. 

“ Annida!” exclaimed Elsie, really alarmed at her appear- 
ance, “do you feel ill? can I get you anything? See, she is 
fainting, Mr. Strathmore; ” and as she spoke, Annida swayed 
back and forth upon her chair, to the distress and alarm of the 
company generally, and of Leonard Strathmore particularly. 


o’er moor and fen. 


99 


Hastily seizing a light summer cloak which was hanging over 
the back of his chair, he threw it upon the deck, and, placing 
his arm around Annida,' gently raised her from her seat and 
deposited her thereon, whilst the others ran right and left, like 
a parcel of frightened sheep, to find restoratives. But Annida 
did not entirely lose her consciousness, and, recovering her 
composure with an effort, she begged that no one would be 
alarmed, for she was accustomed to these seizures, and would 
be quite well again in a moment. So saying she closed her 
eyes, and, seemingly unaware that Leonard was supporting her 
head upon his breast, remained passively where she was, with- 
out making an effort to rise. 

“ She ’ll do,” remarked Jack, sententiously, to Bob. “ ‘ Rich- 
ard is himself again ! ’ She evidently knows what she is about. 
The whole scene is as well gotten up as anything I ever saw on 
the stage. Good Lord ! Bob, what did you not save me from 
when you warned me against that woman ? ’ ’ 

“ * Set a thief to catch a thief,’ ” said Bob, laughing. “You 
see I knew all about her.” 

“Mr. Von Decker,” cried a merry, bright-eyed girl, “this 
is a good time to write your pre-adamite play. Do begin, we 
are dying to hear it.” 

“ I want somebody to help me,” replied Jack. “ I ’ll begin . 
at once, Miss Struthers, if you will lend me your aid.” 

“Oh, ask Miss Stevenson,” replied Miss Struthers; “ she is 
much more capable than I am.” 

“ Do you hear, Bobby? ” asked Jack; “are you prepared to 
act improvisitore on so,short a notice? ” 

“ 4 Lead on, MacDuff ! ’ ” replied Bob. “ The period is one 
with which I am well acquainted. Introduce the dramatis 
persona. ’ ’ 

“ They are already upon the stage,” said Jack ; “ did n’t you 
hear me say: ‘ Enter first Atom,’ etc. ? ” 


100 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ Ah, to be sure,” said Bob. “ Well, let us begin. Is it to 
be prose or verse? ” 

“Oh, verse, of course,” cried every one in a breath, whilst 
Jack added, tragically, “Let us die , if necessary, but let us 
be poetical about it.” 

“Two little Atoms, walking in the sun,” began Bob. 

“A plagiarism ! a plagiarism ! ” shouted the company. 

“ A second-hand edition of * The ten little niggars ’ won’t 
sell, Bobby,” said Jack; “try again.” 

“Begin it yourself, you ingrate,” said Bob, laughing, “and 
I’ll come in with the chorus.” 

“ First Atom, loquitur ,” said Jack gravely. 

“ Oh, Atom mine, 

Wilt thou combine ? 

Chaos to bless 
Let ’s coalesce. 

Go on, Bob, it ’s your turn.” 

“ And thus give birth 
To mother earth ; 

Then form a man. 

On easy plan. 

That’s four lines; now go on yourself,” replied Bob. 

“ And thus to prove our scheme’s no sham,” 

said Jack ; “ no sham / ” he repeated, reflectively. “ Bob, that ’s 
a stumper. ’ ’ 

“ We ’ll form a race, and call it A-dam / ” 
cried Bob, triumphantly. 

“Robert! Robert! my dear fellow!” expostulated Jack, 
after the laughter caused by the last line of the poem had sub- 


o’er moor and fen. 


101 


sided; “ now 'really, you know, that’s swearing. Remember, 
there are ladies present; pray restrain your profanity.” 

“Poet’s license, Mr. Von Decker, that is all,” replied Bob, 
gravely; “but I am sorry I offended your sensitive nature. 
Pray, if I may make so bold as to ask, how is it that you read 
French poetry, when you are so averse to profanity? ” 

“I may be a dunce,” replied Jack, “but I don’t see any 
connection between the two.” 

“That comes of being unintellectual,” replied Bob. “To 
my mind they are almost similar. French poesy is all ‘L'ame ,’ 
and English profanity all ‘Damn.' Very little difference, you 
will perceive.” 

“Put some cold water on her head,” cried Jack, whilst the 
tears rolled down his cheeks from laughter. <f I never saw such 
a girl. She hasn’t the least compunction about the effect of 
her words on her audience. I’ll never go anywhere with her 
again without an iron band around me to keep me from burst- 
ing out laughing.” 

“You are quite as bad yourself,” said Emily Struthers. 
“ Oh, I am so weak from laughter. It is well that we are near 
home, or my death would lie at your door. Please don’t say 
anything more, Miss Stevenson,” she entreated, as Bob opened 
her mouth to speak; “I really cannot stand it; wait until to- 
morrow, at least.” 

“We are nearly opposite Beechcroft,” said Leonard Strath- 
more, bending over his fair burden ; “do you feel well enough 
to land ? ’ ’ and the slight tremor of his voice told Annida that 
her night’s work had not been for nothing. 

“Oh, yes,” she said, “I am quite well now. I should not 
have burdened you for so long a time,” she added, with a sigh, 
as she slowly rose, and looking around her, “but I was so 
comfortable, so — so happy," she continued, fixing a pair of 
9 * 


102 


o’er moor and fen. 


mournful eyes upon him, “ that I could not bear to move and 
break the spell.” 

“I shall never forget this night,” said Leonard, in a low 
voice. 

“Nor I,” said Annida; but there was a wailing tone in her 
voice, and she drew her mantle around her as she spoke, shiver- 
ing as though the night were cold. “I could never do it,” 
she said to herself, as she thought of the part she was acting, 
“if I did not know that Arthur would always love me, let 
what will betide. I must marry Leonard Strathmore ; but, my 
darling, my darling, we shall love each other still.” 

“You leave to-morrow by the early boat, I believe?” said 
Roy interrogatively to Elsie, as he found himself at her side in 
the general movement following the anchorage of the yacht. 

“Yes,” said Elsie, sadly; “to-morrow I leave my home for 
a year, or perhaps two ; and who can tell what may happen in 
that space of time? I am getting nervous and low-spirited,” 
and she looked up at him naturally, for the first time since his 
return. 

“ It is too bad that you are deprived of your friend’s society,” 
said Roy, sympathizingly ; “she seems so fond of you, that I 
am sure she would have been a great comfort.” 

“You mean Nellie?” asked Elsie. “Oh, you have made 
her acquaintance, have you ? I intended to introduce you my- 
self, but I have not had the pleasure of seeing anything of you 
all day.” 

The last words were uttered in a tone of reproach, and brought 
a feeling of pleasure to Roy’s heart. 

“If I had only known — if I had dared believe that you 
cared about seeing more of me,” he began, eagerly, but just 
then Maude’s voice fell upon his ear, saying : 

“Roy, Roy, will you come here a moment, please?” and, 


o’er moor and fen. 


103 


turning in vexation towards the quarter from whence the sound 
came, he perceived her standing motionless, held firmly “in 
durance vile’ ’ by the chain he had given her, which had become 
entangled in her hair. 

How could he refuse to go to her with that memento of his 
promised friendship glittering in the moonlight ? and yet how 
could he leave Elsie just at the moment when an understanding 
seemed probable ? 

“ Make haste, Roy,” cried Maude, “ I am pulling out all my 
hair,” and with an inward groan he quitted Elsie’s side for that 
of her sister, anathematizing bitterly his own stupidity in thus 
having forged his own chains. 

“Good-bye,” she said softly* as he turned away, and in a 
few moments he saw her handed over the side of the vessel, and 
then the little boat bore her from his sight. 

In impotent frenzy he pulled and jerked at poor Maude’s 
hair until she uttered a slight cry, exclaiming : 

“lam being murdered, but I suppose I must bear that for 
the sake of my chain. I would go through a good deal rather 
than lose it,” and she looked up into his face with a sweet 
smile. 

“Well, Bob, old girl, has it been a nice day?” asked Jack, 
as he shut her up in the one-horse shay. 

“Oh, so jolly, Jack,” replied the girl, looking out at him 
with beaming eyes. “ I shall never forget either it or you.” 

“ Every lassie has her laddie, and nane they say hae I,” sang 
Eleanor Marston, as she turned alone towards the house. 


104 


o’er moor and fen. 


CHAPTER XI. 

MIDNIGHT CONFESSIONS. 

“ Oh, that deceit should dwell 
In such a gorgeous palace.” 

A NNIDA DE LUCE hastened towards her room as soon as 
she arrived at the house, hoping thereby to avoid the 
dreaded tete-a-tete with Elsie, but that young lady was not thus 
to be outwitted, and, following after her, reached her door 
almost as soon as she did herself. 

Finding herself pursued, Annida paused upon the threshold, 
trying to conjure up some excuse for delaying her promised 
explanation. She had offered to tell Elsie the true state of 
affairs, when in imminent danger of having a mine sprung under 
her feet, but now that the panic was over, she deeply regretted 
what she had done, and determined that her secret should not 
be wrung from her without a struggle. 

“ Shall I come into your room, or will you come to mine? ” 
said Elsie, standing before her victim like a stern Nemesis. 

“It is very late, is it not?” faltered Annida, “and we are 
both so weary ; do you not think it would be better to postpone 
our conversation until another time ? ” 

“By no means,” replied Elsie, decidedly. “I must hear 
what you have to say in extenuation of your conduct at once, 
for I cannot leave the country with my father, knowing that 
plots and counterplots are taking place in his house, and 
without his knowledge ; so let us understand each other with- 
out delay.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


105 


“ Plots and counterplots ! ’ ’ repeated Annida, with a sweet 
smile. “ Dear me, how terrible those words sound. You 
speak as though I were the heroine of a three-volume sensa- 
tional novel. You will be very much disappointed when you 
learn the truth, which is prosaic enough, I am sure. There, 
ease your mind of its burden, and rest on my assertion that I 
am not going to murder any one, or even elope out of the 
window in proper stage style. I will give you a written promise 
to that effect, if you will only let me go to bed now, I am so 
dreadfully sleepy,” and she gave a prodigious yawn. 

“You gave me a solemn promise this afternoon to tell me 
everything about your mysterious interview with Mr. Leighton, 
and the still more enigmatical words which you imprudently let 
fall after he had left you,” replied Elsie, looking her steadily 
in the face, “and I on my part promised to hold my peace as 
to what I had seen and heard until I had received your explana- 
tion of the scene. I have kept my part of the agreement, and 
it now remains for you to keep yours.” 

“And suppose that I refuse to tell you my pitiful story,” said 
Annida, with glittering eyes. “ Suppose that, on mature con- 
sideration, I see no reason to lay bare my heart before you, and 
submit its writhings to your merciless gaze. What, then, 
Mademoiselle, am I to blame ? ’ * 

“That is for your own conscience to decide,” said Elsie, 
coldly. “I have nothing to do with that. I am here to listen 
to your confession, at your own desire, and to secure the honor 
of my father’s house. Be frank with me, and I will deal as 
gently with you as the circumstances will permit ; but refuse to 
give me your confidence, and I shall feel it to be my duty to 
place the matter in more experienced hands than my own.” 

“Go in,” muttered Annida, moving aside to let her pass, 
and as Elsie entered she followed with clinched teeth and low- 
ering brow. 


106 o’er moor and fen. 

“ You are driving me too hard,” she continued. “Animals 
at bay are dangerous. Take care, or I may turn and rend 
you. ’ ’ 

Elsie looked at her almost with alarm, so sudden and terrific 
was the change in her cousin’s face; but as she gazed the storm 
died away, and a hopeless, weary expression took the place of 
the threatening cloud. 

“Sit down and make yourself comfortable,” she said, drear- 
ily, as she threw off her dress and wrapped herself in a light 
robe de chambre. “You have entailed upon yourself a long and 
dismal yarn,” she continued, sinking into an easy chair, and 
proceeding to loosen the heavy braids coiled around her 
shapely head, “and have only yourself to blame if you fall 
asleep before the end of it. Yet why should I make it long? 
What is there to interest you in my lonely life at the South — 
my struggles with poverty and uncongeniality — of Arthur 
Leighton’s entrance on that life, and all he was and is to me? 
You only wish, I believe, to know for how long a time I have 
been engaged to him, and what was my motive in concealing 
the fact? Am I right?” 

She paused and fixed her eyes on Elsie, who simply bowed 
her head in the affirmative. 

“ Let me then rather begin at the end than at the beginning,” 
she continued, threading her small white fingers through the 
luxuriant mass of hair now falling over her shoulders. “ Three 
years ago I promised to be Arthur Leighton’s wife ; but, as we 
were neither of us possessed of sufficient means to support an 
establishment, we determined to keep our engagement secret 
until our prospects brightened, and not appear before the world 
as indigent lovers. Arthur had reason to believe — or, rather, 
thought he had — that he would soon be in an independent 
position ; but that hope, like so many in my life, proved de- 


o’er moor and fen. 107 

lusive, and it will be years upon years before he can afford the 
luxury of a wife, therefore I have never spoken of my engage- 
ment. Now you know all, are you satisfied ? ’ ’ 

“ Not quite,” said Elsie, gravely. “ Your last words, uttered 
after he left you, are still unexplained. Why did you bid him 
farewell forever, if you still love him as you led him to suppose, 
and how could you encourage Mr. Strathmore’s attentions, 
when you were engaged to marry another? ” 

“ I have already told you that my promise was given some 
time ago,” replied Annida. “I am three years older and 
wiser than I was then, and have seen enough of the world to 
know how weak and imprudent we are in thus wasting our lives 
in hopeless patience. What will our love avail us when we 
have grown gray awaiting its fruition? What if, when all 
chance of doing better is over, we find that time, the despoiler 
of all things, has carried away with him our love, and left us 
nothing in its place but mutual reproaches ? ’ ’ 

“*Can true love die?” asked Elsie, with her large eyes 
opened to their widest extent. 

“Aye, child,” answered Annida, with a short, dry laugh. 
“ Love is subject to the law of nature as well as ourselves ; it 
can die in the lapse of years, and is sometimes crushed out of 
life in a moment.” 

“ You may be right in regard to some cases,” replied Elsie, 
with heightened color, “ but I will not believe it is thus in all ; 
and, in my opinion, the man or woman who could thus thrust 
aside the best and purest passion of the human heart for a 
worldly consideration, is as criminal as one who would take the 
life of a fellow-creature.” 

“Would I were sixteen,” said Annida, with a contemptuous 
smile, “and could think as you do; but my experience has 
taught me otherwise.” 


ioS 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ Do you think, then, that Mr. Leighton loves you less than 
he did three years ago?” inquired Elsie. “Is it for his sake 
that you wish to break your engagement ? ’ ’ 

“Who said I wished to break it?” exclaimed Annida, 
passionately. “Does it seem probable, when he is the qnly 
human being I have ever loved? The day I lose him will 
break my heart. Oh, God ! oh, God ! Life is so hard.” 

She covered her face with her hands as she spoke, and 
moaned piteously as she rocked herself back and forth in her 
chair. Elsie’s tender heart was touched. Bright tears of 
sympathy glistened in her soft eyes. 

“Annida,” she said, gently, “do not be so despairing. Per- 
haps brighter days are in store for you than you imagine. Keep 
a brave heart, and above all, do not try to conquer a love which 
so entirely absorbs your being, lest you destroy yourself in the 
endeavor.” 

“It is too late to talk to me in that way,” said Annida, 
sadly. “I have long since resigned all hope of happiness with 
Arthur Leighton. Fate is against it, and I cannot conquer 
fate. It is best for me to resign him — it is best for him that 
I should let him go.” 

“Do nothing hastily,” exclaimed Elsie, eagerly. “Let me 
speak to my father and see what he can do. ’ 

“No, no,” said. Annida, quickly. “I will not have my 
uncle made acquainted with my troubles. What could he do for 
Arthur but take him into his office to swell the list of useless 
clerks ? Do not make matters worse than they are, by publish- 
ing the secrets of my heart.” 

“Then let me speak to Mr. Strathmore,” said Elsie. “He 
has so much influence in the city, and will, I am sure, use it to 
Mr. Leighton’s advantage when he has heard your story. He 
might even take him as a private secretary, he has so much and 


o’er moor and fen. 


109 

to spare, that he could afford to give a liberal salary, and you 
might live at Strathmore Park.” 

In her eagerness and delight at having thought of so pleasant 
a way out of Annida’s troubles, Elsie approached her cousin 
and laid her hand affectionately on her shoulder ; but she drew 
back instinctively as the bowed head was lifted, and a tearless 
face, on which rested a mocking smile, met her expectant gaze. 

For a few moments they remained looking at each other in 
silence, and then Annida burst out laughing, exclaiming : 

“ Did any one ever see such charming simplicity? Do you 
really suppose, my dear child, that I would be content to live 
at Strathmore Park as the wife of a subordinate ? ’ ’ 

“Would you not?” said Elsie, with a crestfallen look. 

“ Would you be content with half of a ripe apricot, if you 
could have the whole for the asking? ” replied Annida. “ My 
dear, I propose to live at Strathmore Park, but as the wife of 
the master , not of the servant,” and her lip curled with scorn. 

A deadly pallor overspread Elsie’s face, and she regarded 
her cousin with a look of positive terror. 

“Annida,” she said, “ are you a woman, or a fiend? Is it 
possible that, after all you have told me concerning your love 
for Mr. Leighton, you can seriously propose to marry Mr. 
Strathmore ? To swear at the altar to love, honor, and obey 
the one, whilst the other possesses all your heart? That even 
as you lay in Arthur’s arms this evening, you were plotting to 
deceive him, and give to another that hand which was his 
alone, by reason of the vows you had made him ? I must have 
mistaken your meaning — you cannot be so heartless a de- 
ceiver.” 

“Poverty is a hard taskmaster,” muttered Annida; “we 
must go whither he drives us.” 

“ Never would I be driven to sell myself,” exclaimed Elsie, 

10 


no 


o’er moor and fen. 


“or deliberately deceive one who loved me as passionately as 
Mr. Leighton does you.” 

“You know so much about it,” said Annida, with a sneer. 
“Reared from infancy in luxury, you understand so well the 
carking care, the maddening anxiety to make two ends meet, 
that eat out a woman’s soul. And what is the reward of all 
this pain and misery? I will tell you. When a woman 
marries a poor man, giving up all to follow him, she must re- 
nounce every personal ambition, gratification, and desire ; and 
when, having dune this uncomplainingly, nay, cheerfully, she 
has lost, in the hard, one-sided warfare with the world, health, 
strength, youth, beauty, — in fact, all that makes a woman 
powerful among men — this one for whom she has sacrificed her- 
self turns from the wreck with disgust, and some more favored 
child of fortune wins and wears her only treasure, — her ‘ ewe 
lamb,’ her husband’s love — whilst she pines in secret, too 
proud to show her wounds, and with no power to avenge her 
wrongs. Ha ! ha ! It is amusing, is it not ? this droll world. 
Let us be merry, for to-morrow we die. Vive la bagatelle .” 

Annida, who had been growing more and more excited as 
she spoke, now burst into a wild fit of laughter, so mirthless and 
dreary that it struck terror to Elsie’s heart, and it was a 
moment or two before she could collect herself sufficiently to 
speak. 

“Annida,” she said, at length, “I will not argue this sub- 
ject with you, for I am too inexperienced ; but I cannot allow 
you to play a double game, such as you meditate, with these 
two men. You must promise me either to break at once with 
Mr. Leighton, or give up all designs on Mr. Strathmore’s hand. 
This duplicity cannot continue under my father’s roof, /must 
speak the truth at all hazards, if you will not.” 

“ You will prevent my marrying Leonard Strathmore — is that 


o’er moor and fen. 


Ill 


what you mean ? ” said Annida, looking fixedly at her. “You 
will tell him all that I have told you in confidence? How 
honorable in you ! how I admire your keen sense of what is due 
to an orphaned cousin staying in your father’s house ! ” 

“ I will not betray your confidence unless you force me,” 
replied Elsie, flushing slightly at the taunt. 

“You threaten me, do you?” said Annida, starting to her 
feet, and flashing a lightning glance upon her cousin, who 
stood pale and immovable before her. “ Do you think that a 
little soft white kitten like yourself can compete with a tigress? 
Do you suppose that I would have disclosed my plans, had 
checkmate been possible? Let there be war between us if 
you will. I will stand no dictation from you as to what I shall 
or shall not do. Tell your tale to Leonard Strathmore, if you 
can see him before you leave to-morrow ; go whining to him of 
heartlessness and deception, and he will hurl your own words 
back upon you, as it was only this evening that I told him the 
same about yourself, and he is under the impression that you 
have been playing him off against your cousin.” 

She paused to take breath, and Elsie stood speechless before 
her. She felt that she was no match for her cousin, and her 
sensitive nature revolted at the base treachery with which she 
had been treated. ■* 

“I have ‘spiked your guns,’ my little lady,” continued An- 
nida, “and it will be the better for you if you lay down your 
arms at once, and own yourself defeated, for I swear to you 
by all that is holy, that if you mar my plans, or put yourself in 
any way between me and my ambition, or — or — my love, I 
will ruin you forever. There, begone and do your worst, 
remembering always what I have just said.” 

Like one in a dream, Elsie turned to leave the room. It 
seemed as though she had no volition of her own. 


1 1 2 


o’er moor a^d fen. 


“ To think,” she said, “ that I have lived so long with you, 
and never known you until to-night.” And she passed on 
mechanically to her own apartment, without another word or 
glance. 


CHAPTER XII. 


MY LADY SLEEPS. 


“ Ah, there ’s many a purer and many a better, 

But more loved .... Oh, how few love ! ” 

HE door closed on Elsie’s retreating form, and Annida 



X was alone to enjoy her triumph ; yet, although she had 
driven the enemy from the field, her heart was not at peace, and 
a vague feeling of disquietude possessed her. 

“She can do me no harm now,” she said, as if to reassure 
herself ; “ it is too late. She will be off at daybreak to-morrow, 
and after the sea rolls between us, we shall see who is mistress 
of Leonard Strathmore’s heart. What was that?” and she 
paused suddenly before the mirror, and remained motionless, 
listening attentively. 

Softly on the evening breeze floated the sound of music, and 
the serenade from Faust fell upon her listening ears. A fit of 
trembling seized her — her limbs refused to support her. Well, 
ah, too well, did she know that air, and recognize the singer. 
It had been Arthur Leighton’s signal of approach ever since 
they had first exchanged vows, and the air had mingled with 
his first words of love, whispered low during the performance 
of the opera in New Orleans, on the eventful night when she 
had promised to become his wife. It was Arthur returning from 


o’er moor and fen. 


1*3 

the Stevensons. She knew it, and yet she felt impelled to draw 
aside the curtain and satisfy herself, so, hastily lowering the 
gas, she stole across the room and peeped cautiously out of the 
window. 

Yes, there he was, with the moon lighting up his handsome 
face, and gilding his bright wavy hair, as, cap in hand, he leaned 
back in the wagon in which he had conveyed Mr. Stevenson 
home, and, allowing the tired horses to choose their own gait, 
looked up anxiously, at her window awaiting some answering 
signal. 

Nearer came the song and the singer, until the voice seemed 
close beneath the window, and spell-bound Annida stood gazing, 
with increasing agitation, on the form of him she loved so well ; 
eagerly imprinting each familiar lineament upon her memory — 
learning his face by heart, as one would that of a departed 
friend, soon to be buried from one’s sight forever. 

For once the woman’s nature spoke within her, urging her to 
renounce her ambition for this man’s sake, and, cleaving only 
unto him, to forego her cherished dream of power and wealth ; 
but for too long had she listened to the voice of worldly pru- 
dence to make fight against it now, and although she moaned 
and shivered where she stood, and clutched the curtain to pre- 
vent herself from falling, she never for a moment swerved from 
her determination to sacrifice this man’s happiness to her own 
comfort and convenience. 

Arthur paused a moment beneath the window, and then, as 
no sign of life appeared, he moved on again, singing in a low, 
silvery, tenor voice : 

“ Moon of the summer night, 

Far down yon western steeps, 

10* H 


o’er moor and fen. 


1 14 

Sink, sink in silver light ; 

She sleeps, 

My lady sleeps, 

Sleeps.” 

“ Ah, if she did but sleep,” groaned Annida, crouching upon 
the floor like an animal in pain. “ Yes, even if it were the 
last sleep, from which there is no awaking, it would be welcome, 
could I but escape from this hell of misery into which my heart 
has plunged me. Oh, .that I had never seen his face ! ” 

“ Dreams of the summer night, 

^ Tell her, her lover keeps 

Watch, while in slumbers light 
She sleeps ; 

My lady sleeps, 

Sleeps.” 

The voice filled the room with melody for a moment and 
then died away in the distance, the last words falling on the 
ear like an echo. 

“I can bear no more,” exclaimed Annida, starting to her 
feet, and, hastily approaching the toilet table, she took a box 
from the drawer, within which lay some powders. “ I will 
sleep to-night,” she muttered, “let what will happen to-mor- 
row ; ” and pouring the contents of two of the little papers into 
her hand, she swallowed them at once, without giving herself 
time to reflect, then threw herself upon the bed, dressed as she 
was, and closed her eyes on the troublesome world. 

Arthur Leighton pursued his way to the stables, never guessing 
the tragedy being played in the darkened room above, and, 
having surrendered his charge to the groom in waiting, returned 
quietly to the house. 

The hall-door had been left unlocked on his account, and, 
entering, he closed it and secured the fastenings, after which he 


o’er moor and fen. 


IIS 

would have extinguished the only light left burning, but, to his 
extreme astonishment, as he turned to do so a hand was put 
upon his arm, and Elsie Von Decker stood beside him, still 
clothed in the dress she had worn at the picnic, and which was 
now no whiter than her face. 

“Mr. Leighton,” she said, in an imploring voice, “I hope 
you will forgive me for what I am doing, although I can scarcely 
forgive myself. Take this note, please, but do not read it until 
I am gone to-morrow, and whatever may happen, do me the 
justice to believe that I have only done that which I thought 
duty required.” 

She was gone in a moment, and but for the note remaining 
in his hand, Arthur would have been tempted to imagine him- 
self the victim of an optical delusion. 

“By Jove ! this is a queer piece of business,” he exclaimed, 
as he put the note in his pocket and extinguished the light. 
“I ’ll be hanged if I understand head or tail of it.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

ON THE SEA. 

“ Fare thee well ! and if forever, 

Still forever, fare thee well ! ” 

W ORN out by the day’s excitement, Elsie fell asleep as 
soon as her head touched her pillow, and it seemed to 
her to have been but a moment since she laid down, when the 
maid aroused her with the alarming intelligence that breakfast 
was served, and her father very impatient at her delay. She 


ii 6 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


sprang up at once, and making a hasty toilet, stole noiselessly 
past the room in which her mother still slumbered, and down 
the stairs, pausing only for one moment, as she opened the dining- 
room door, to still the beating of her heart, and prepare herself 
for a calm leave-taking of her cousin. 

Her precaution was unnecessary, however, for Roy was not 
there, neither did he appear even when the carriage came to 
the door, and, dissolved in tears, she was ensconced therein by 
Maude and the boys. 

“ He does not care to bid me good-bye,” she said to herself, 
sorrowing, and at the same moment Roy, from an upper win- 
dow, was breathing a sad farewell, and looking at her with 
eyes scarcely less misty than her own. 

“It is all up with me,” he said, as the carriage disappeared 
among the trees ; “ my dream of love is over. I must wake up 
now and face the future like a man.” 

So they parted from each other as strangers, and these two 
hearts, which seemed made to be united, were rudely forced 
asunder by what, perhaps, is the cause of two-thirds of human 
misery, namely, a misunderstanding. 

Loving devotedly, they nevertheless drifted, each in his or 
her own way, into what seemed almost a wilful misconception 
of the other’s feelings, nor could they have explained, had they 
been asked, why it had so happened. 

All the way to the boat Elsie sobbed and cried, and wondered 
why Roy had been so relentlessly cruel. The pang of parting 
must, under any circumstances, have been great, but the thought 
that he had not cared enough for her to rise from his bed and 
bid her farewell, added poignancy to her grief. 

“ There ! there ! dry your eyes, child,” exclaimed her father, 
as they went on board of the steamer. “ You could not cry 
more if I were going 'to drown you. Every one is looking at 


o’er moor and fen. 


II 7 


me as though I were a monster, dragging you away from home 
and friends. Go below and bathe your eyes, before the police 
are put upon my track.” 

Elsie took his advice and went at once to her state-room, 
where she remained until she had recovered her composure, and 
when they were fairly out at sea, there was so much novelty in 
the situation, that she forgot to be miserable, and soon lost 
sight of her sorrows in interested observation of her fellow 
travellers. 

She was destined, however, to have them recalled to her • 
mind before very long, for her father also had noticed Roy’s 
absence in the morning, and was curious to know the cause of 
it ; so as they sat upon the deck that evening he introduced the 
subject, saying — 

“Did you see Roy this morning, Elsie? ” 

“ No, sir,” she replied, in a low voice, whilst the red blood 
rushed into her cheeks. 

“ I wonder where he was ? ” continued her father, reflectively ; 

“ it was unlike his usual courtesy to let us leave without a word 
of farewell. You have had no disagreement with him, have 
you ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, no, sir,” said Elsie, quickly, but she volunteered no 
further information. 

Mr. Von Decker maintained a puzzled silence for a time, and 
then, knocking the ashes olf his cigar, he returned to the charge. 

“About the chain, my dear,” he said, “did you accept it? 

It was only a birthday present, remember, such as he has given 
you every year since he came to us, so don’t make a gage 
d' amour of it, and cry yourself to sleep over it every night. 

I won’t stand any of that nonsense yet a while, and so I told 
your cousin. You must cultivate your head a little more before 
you undertake your heart.” 


1 1 8 o’er moor and fen. 

Elsie listened to him in amazement, but she determined not 
to confess her ignorance of the subject of his conversation, 
lest her father should not think fit to enlighten her afterwards, 
so she replied warily. 

“ I have no chain, sir ; so the temptation to weep over it will 
not be great.” 

“What!” exclaimed her father, in delighted surprise. 
“ You refused it, then ? My dear child, I cannot tell you how 
much you have pleased me. I consented to your cousin’s re- 
vealing his love to you in a moment of weakness, which I have 
been reproaching myself for ever since. You see I was afraid 
I had been rather harsh in turning my dead sister’s son out of 
the house because he had the misfortune to love my daughter, 
and when I saw how devoted his love was, and how dejected 
and unhappy he felt at your leaving home for so long a time 
without a word or a look for him, I yielded and sent him to 
you, under the condition that he would promise not to bind 
you with any engagement. He did not attempt to do that, 
did he?” 

“ No, oh, no,” said Elsie, struggling with the agitation which 
this revelation of Roy’s true feelings for her had caused ; “he 
said nothing of that sort.” 

“Ah, well, I am glad of it,” said Mr. Von Decker, con- 
tentedly, “ and if I had only known how sensibly you were 
going to act, I would have let the poor fellow go home long 
ago, but I feared that your heart was engaged. ’ ’ 

Elsie made no answer. She was entirely overwhelmed by a 
torrent of self-reproach. How vividly every scene in which 
her cousin had played a part came before her. And, viewed in 
this new light which her father had shed upon it, how noble 
and self-sacrificing did his conduct appear. He had told her 
father of his love for her, and had accepted exile rather than 


o’er moor and fen. 


1 19 


give her up ; and all this time she had treated him with scorn, 
reproaching him bitterly in her heart for what she deemed 
faithlessness. 

Now that the veil had fallen, she understood his looks, his 
words, his sighs, and remembered with shame and distress 
how she had resolutely repulsed his advances, and thrust back 
on him that love which, now that it was too late, she would 
have given the world to possess. 

But was it too late ? She asked herself the question again 
and again, as she sat looking blankly at the vast expanse of 
water stretched out before her eyes, and the result of her in- 
quiry was that a timid voice broke in upon Mr. Von Decker’s 
reflections, saying: 

“ Papa ! ” 

“Well, dear,” he responded. 

“ Does the vessel put into port again ? ” 

“Why do you ask, child?” said her father, with an amused 
smile; “are you home-sick already? Do you wish to be put 
ashore ? ” 

“Oh, no,” replied Elsie, “but I should like to send a few 
lines to — to — Nellie Marston, if I could; I was so flurried 
this morning that I forgot a great many important things.” 

“ I am afraid they must wait until we have crossed the ocean 
then,” replied her father, “unless you can persuade the captain 
to put back. Tell him that you forgot to kiss one of your 
friends good-bye, and I have no doubt he will at once change 
the course of the vessel,” he added, with a humorous smile. 

“ Oh, you bad little papa ! ” exclaimed Elsie, laughing de- 
spite herself. “ I do believe that you are making fun of me. 
Let me tell you, sir, that I won’t have it. It has always been 
my prerogative to make fun of you, and I will not permit you 
to deprive me of it.” 

1 

1 : 


120 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ Dear, dear, what a naughty little child have we here,” said 
her father. “ Just hear how saucy she is getting. I must send 
her to bed for punishment. Go at once, Miss, and I hope that 
the morrow will find you a better girl,” saying which he arose 
from his seat, and leading her below, tenderly kissed and left 
her to her first night’s repose at sea. 

Long was it, however, before sleep visited her eyes, for, 
added to the unaccustomed noises of the vessel, her agitated 
feelings kept her wide awake, and she could do nothing but 
reflect on the strange information she had just received from 
her father, and pass the hours in unavailing regret, that so long 
a time must elapse e’er she could pour into Roy’s ear her love 
and penitence. 

Annida rose late the morning of Elsie’s departure^nd the 
effect of the over-dose of opium that she had taken the night 
before was to render her languid and feeble to . so great an 
extent that she was obliged to remain in her room all day, her 
mental troubles being absolutely forgotten for the time, in real 
physical suffering. 

When at last she came down stairs, Arthur was no longer at 
Beechcroft, having been suddenly summoned to the city on 
business, and her only sensation on hearing of his departure 
was one of relief, so great had been her perplexity as to how 
she could court Leonard under her former lover’s eyes without 
exciting his suspicion. She had fully resolved to sacrifice Arthur 
to her ambition, and, if possible, to become mistress of Strath- 
more Park ; but she did not wish to risk one chance of happiness 
before the other was secure, and determined, therefore, to keep 
him in the dark up to the moment of her engagement to his 
rival, trusting to circumstances to reveal, when it must be done, 
her defection in a creditable light. Her influence over Arthur 
was great ; she had never failed in making him view her actions 


o’er moor and fen. 


121 


through her eyes, so she felt no doubt of being able to explain 
her conduct satisfactorily, if only he would give her time, and 
the lucky accident of his absence, just at this critical moment, 
gave her the opportunity she wished for action, so she lost no 
time in making her attack. 

So absorbed was she in strategy, that Maude would have been 
very lonely after Elsie left, had not Nellie Marston consented 
to remain with her for a few weeks, for Roy, thoroughly un- 
happy and displeased with himself, and longing, now that there 
was no chance of it, to ask an explanation of Elsie, found 
Beechcroft unendurable, Maude’s companionship irksome, and 
passed all his time in the city. 

Jack, also, was of small account in the family circle, for 
Maude and himself never met without a war of words, and 
this continual strife had became so wearying that he no longer 
remained at home, but passed his days either riding “across 
country” with Roberta Stevenson, or lounging over the neigh- 
boring fields, gun in hand, in search of game. 

The lazy fellow could not be persuaded to assist Roy, although 
he was often petitioned to do so. 

“ I was n’t made for work,” he would reply, with a yawn at 
the mere thought of it. “Who but a savage could ask me to stoop 
my symmetrical form over a desk, dim my bright eyes by reading 
crabbed notes from disappointed stock gamblers, and thread 
my chestnut locks with silver by the anxiety and care of a Wall 
Street office ? ' ’ 
ii 







\ 






BOOK SECOND. 














































































# 


















CHAPTER I. 


BOB AT HOME. 

“ Let the toast pass ; 

Drink to the lass; 

I ’ll warrant she ’ll prove an excuse for the glass.” 

T HE eighteenth day of September dawned bright and 
cloudless, and Roberta Stevenson, who arose with the 
sun, stood at her chamber window looking wistfully at the 
green fields, longing for a scamper over them before the heat 
of the day, and yet fearing to desert her post without special 
permission, lest some untoward accident should occur to the 
“ brethren ” in her absence ; for they were an unruly set, it must 
be confessed, and apt to get into mischief without constant 
supervision. ' 

There was one exception, however, in the “menagerie,” and 
that one was August, without whom poor Roberta’s life would 
have been a burden, but with whose aid she managed to main- 
tain a semblance of authority, and prevent any serious mutiny 
in the camp. This boy seemed formed of different clay from 
the others, resembling them no more either in personal appear- 
ance or character, than a delicate porcelain vase a common 
stone pot, and Bob loved him with all her heart as the one oasis 
in her desert life. 

Many a time had he acted as peacemaker among his turbu- 
lent fellows, when Bob, an agonized spectator of a struggle, had 
ii * 125 


126 


o’er moor and fen. 


deemed the extermination of one of them unavoidable, and had 
he been on hand to-day, she would have taken a holiday without 
fear ; but, alas ! he had inherited with his mother’s beauty her 
delicate constitution, and often, as now, he would be unable to 
rise in the morning, having passed half the previous night in 
restless tossings and weary spells of coughing. 

As a rule, Bob was merry and good-tempered, and in no ways 
inclined to shirk her duty, or shrink from the many cares thrust 
upon her by her father, who seemed to entirely overlook the 
fact that she was young and needed youthful amusements ; ex- 
pecting from her, on the contrary, the steadiness and forethought 
of a woman of mature years, never praising meritorious conduct, 
but always visiting delinquencies with severe displeasure. But 
there were times, like the present, when nature asserted itself, 
and she was seized with an unspeakable longing to be free to 
roam where and when she pleased, without reference to the 
comfort of the “ wild beasts,” or her father’s need of an amanu- 
ensis. 

“It is too bad to waste such a day as this in that dingy old 
library,” she said to August, as she arranged the breakfast-tray 
at his bedside. 

“ Papa is hot awake yet,” said August, in a low voice, for he 
occupied the room next to his father; “and if you hurry 
through your breakfast you’ll have time for a scamper before 
he wants you. Run along and order 4 Cat’s-paw’ at once. I 
don’t need you any more, and after breakfast the boys will be’ 
at study.” 

“ That is so,” said Bob, blithely. “ I can have a short ride 
after all, if only father does not wake,” she added. 

“Evoke Young’s ‘Night Thoughts,’” said August, with a 
smile, “ ‘ Tired nature’s sweet restorer,’ and all that, and see 
if you can’t keep him asleep.” 


o’er moor AND fen. 127 

“ I ’ll have to drug the boys, I ’m afraid,” replied Bob, with 
an answering smile; “just listen to the young wretches ! What 
a dreadful noise they are making.” 

“It’s * feeding time, ’ ” said August; “the little beasts are 
roaring for their victuals ; cram their mouths with hot mush 
and molasses, and that will keep them quiet for a time.” 

“Provided the mush is not too hot,” said Bob, as she ran 
laughingly away, “in which case their ‘roaring’ might be 
turned to ‘ howling. ’ ’ ’ 

Finding, on her arrival in the breakfast-room, that the meal 
was not yet served, Roberta hastened to the stable to secure the 
horse before he was carried off to work, for the invaluable 
“Cat’s-paw” served all purposes in the Stevenson family, and 
was plough -horse or saddle-horse as occasion required. 

Swiftly as Bob ran, she was nevertheless outstripped by two 
of the boys, who, scenting some frolic by her gladsome face, 
determined to have their share of it. 

“ What do you want ? Where are you going ? ’ ’ they shouted, 
as the trio drew up breathless at the stable-door, and Bob faced 
about on them, vexed at being followed. 

“I’m only going to take a ride,” said she. “Why can’t 
you give me a moment’s peace ? There, go back to the house, 
like good boys, and I ’ll give you something nice for breakfast.” 

“ You haven’t got anything nice to give,” replied Joe, com- 
posedly, knowing perfectly the condition of the larder; “but I ’ll 
go back at once if you will promise to take me out with you.” 

“ What nonsense ! ” exclaimed Will, his senior only by twelve 
months. “What could Bob do with a brat like you, I should 
like to know, unless she put you in her pocket? I’ll go, 
Bobby ; I can run alongside, you know, and hold your horse, 
if you want to get off and gather blackberries.” 

“That’s not fair,” said Joe, excitedly; “you went last 
time. Bob, take me, I can hold a horse as well as he can.” 


128 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ Bah, baby,” said Will, contemptuously ; u you hold a horse ! 
I ’d like to see you. He ’d cry if it whisked its tail ; Bob, don’t 
trust him.” 

“I’m as much to be trusted as you are,” exclaimed Joe, 
almost foaming with rage ; “ and I’m no more of a baby than 
you are yourself. Take that ! and learn to keep a civil tongue 
in your head,” and striking out from his shoulder like a young 
Hercules, Master Will, taken off his guard, rolled over and 
over on the loose straw, almost under the horse’s feet. 

“Joe! Joe!” exclaimed Bob, indignantly; “what do you 
mean by such behavior ? I ’ve a good mind to box your ears. 
Go at once to the house,” but the order was unnecessary, for, 
perceiving his brother rising in wrath from his lowly position, 
Joe had already beat a precipitate retreat. 

“ The mean coward,” growled Will, when he was once more 
upon his feet. “ See how he runs, will you? Just wait a bit, 
my fine fellow, and I ’ll teach you to know your betters ; ” and 
had Roberta not interfered, he would have pursued the flying 
enemy. 

“No, no, Will,” she exclaimed, grasping him by the arm, 
“you must not go after him. If you do, you shall have no 
breakfast. Now do be a good boy, for once, and make no 
noise, for I want to take a ride, and if you wake papa he will 
want me.” 

“Then why did you let him strike me? ” said Will, but he 
walked beside her in sulky silence, nor made another effort to 
catch his brother ; for, notwithstanding their love of mischief, 
the boys all loved Bob, and not one of them would wilfully have 
deprived her of a moment’s pleasure. 

By this time breakfast was ready, such as it was. The fare 
at the Stevensons’ was always simple, though healthy, and their 
morning meal consisted generally of bread, milk, and porridge, 


o’er moor and fen. 


129 

but to-day, acting on August’s advice, Bob produced a jug of 
molasses, which caused a general murmur of delight. 

“Now, boys,” she said, seating herself at the head of the 
board, “ this is an especial treat, so I shall expect you to be 
especially good on account of it ; ” and then, whilst they eat the 
bread and butter, she proceeded to ladle out the porridge, 
covering each “ mess” plentifully with the thick syrup, whilst 
the boys looked on gloatingly. 

“I’ll carry the plates round,” exclaimed Will, suddenly 
starting from his seat, and had Bob seen the fiendish smile upon 
his face as he proceeded in his task, she would have chosen 
another servitor ; but, as it was, he escaped observation, and, 
seating himself once more, applied his energies to the pile of 
bread and butter before him. 

Joe had completed his first 1 course, and now drew the por- 
ridge towards him lovingly. He filled the spoon as full as it 
could be, and then put it, all unsuspectingly, into his mouth, 
but, instead of the exclamation of delight with which he usually 
greeted the first mouthful of this coveted dish, he uttered a 
shriek of anguish, and sputtering horribly, fell tooth and nail 
upon his brother, who roared out laughing with delight. 

“What is the matter?” cried poor Bob, in alarm. 

“Pep-pep-pep-pep-pepper,” cried the strangling Joe, and, 
true enough, the demoniacal Will had contrived, whilst carrying 
his brother’s plate, to capsize the pepper-box into it ; but his 
laughter was soon turned to notes of woe, for Joe fought like a 
young tiger to get possession of his brother’s plate. 

“I’ll eat every bit of your porridge before your eyes,” he 
shrieked ; “just see if I don’t ! Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! my mouth 
burns so ! ” and then ensued a frightful struggle, during which 
the boys rose alternately to the surface, and made dives at the 
table to secure the remaining porridge, whilst Bob, beside her- 

I 


130 


o’er moor and fen. 


self with distress, appealed first to one and then the other, and 
little Spencer howled dismally from fright. 

“ Boys ! boys ! ” entreated Bob, “ pray be quiet. What will 
papa say? ” but words fell unheeded upon the combatants, and 
the warfare waged more furiously than before, until, by a lucky 
snatch, Joe secured the plate, and springing agilely out of reach, 
endeavored to swallow its contents at a gulp. 

This effort, however, was not a success ; the porridge went 
down the wrong way, and whilst gasping spasmodically after 
breath, his face purple from strangulation, Will bore down upon 
him, and by a well-planted blow sent him flying through a glass 
door by which he was standing, whilst the ill-fated porridge 
plate performed a somersault in the air, and then landed in Mr. 
Stevenson’s face, as, aroused from his slumbers by the frightful 
din, he opened the dining-room door to discover the cause 
of it. 

If none of my readers have been unhappy enough to have 
ever met with an enraged philosopher in dressing-gown and 
slippers, spectacles on nose, over which glared a pair of furious 
eyes, and decorated from the summit of his high forehead to 
his feet with bright patches of mush and molasses, far be it 
from me to harrow up their feelings by endeavoring to portray 
this scene upon paper. Suffice it to say that a panic seized the 
unhappy Stevensons, and they stood in helpless silence, trem- 
bling before this frightful apparition. 

4 4 What means this noise and confusion? ” exclaimed the old 
gentleman. “ Is this a bear garden, or the breakfast-room of 
civilized human beings? Roberta, will you be so good as to 
explain this incomprehensible scene ? ” 

“The boys, sir,” began Bob, in faltering tones, “they — 
they 've had a little difficulty.” 

“I am quite well aware of that,” said her father, with 


o’er moor and FEN. 1 3 1 

another savage glare. “What I wish to know, is why you 
allow such disgraceful brawls? I should think that a young 
woman of your years would be capable of maintaining order 
during a matutinal meal, but it appears that I am mistaken.” 

“Iam very sorry sir,” said Bob. “ I did my best, though ; 
I begged them to make less noise.” 

“You begged them ! ” said Mr. Stevenson, scornfully ; “ if you 
had exerted a little authority and made them be quiet, it would 
have been more to the purpose. I desire now that the offenders 
be punished at once, after which you can come to the library 
and copy some manuscript for me. As I have been awaked so 
early, I may as well make use of the time,” after which, with 
one more indignant glance at the boys, he left the room, nearly 
capsizing poor Augustus in his exit, who, white and trembling, 
now appeared upon the scene. 

“There is nothing wrong,” said Mr. Stevenson, his whole 
manner changing as he turned to this his favorite child. “You 
had better go back to your room, my boy ; you look unwell this 
morning. ’ ’ 

But August was not to be turned back. He saw beyond his 
father a scene which appealed to his warmest sympathies, 
namely, Roberta, with her face buried in the sofa cushion, sob- 
bing bitterly, so he passed on hastily and stood beside her. 

“What ’s the matter, dear?” he asked; but she was too much 
overcome to answer him. “ What have you boys been doing? ” 
he then asked, and at the sound of his gentle voice the cul- 
prits felt, for the first time, that they had been doing something 
wrong. 

“Nothing much,” said Will. “I’ve only smashed Joe’s 
head for him, but the Governor always makes such a row. 
Golly! how he looked with the molasses running from his 
eyebrows and trickling down his nose!” and the “irrepres- 


132 


o’er moor and fen. 


sible ” burst out .laughing, as though nothing had happened to 
distress him. 

“It is very well for you to laugh,” sobbed Roberta, “for 
whatever you do is always blamed on me. How can I manage 
two big fellows like Joe and you, I should like to know? and 
yet I am to be punished for your misbehavior, by being kept in 
the library the whole of this beautiful day. * * 

“It’s a great shame !” said August, gravely. “Boys, how 
could you be so unkind ? ’ ’ 

“Because we’re brutes, all of us,” said Will, looking grave 
enough, now that he was made aware of his sister’s disappoint- 
ment. “I’m sorry, old girl, indeed, lam! I forgot all about 
you when I began to fight, or I ’d have given up my share to 
keep the peace.” 

“Never mind,” said Roberta, mollified by the first word of 
contrition, “I can go out some other day.” 

“You shall go out right off,” said Will, impulsively kissing 
her; “I'm to be punished, you know, and I can’t think of any- 
thing more awful than passing a whole morning with the Gov- 
ernor, so I’m off to take your place.” And away rushed the 
merry, affectionate boy, to his self-imposed task, not waiting for 
a word of remonstrance. 

Bob rose and wiped her eyes. “ What dear, sweet boys you 
can be when you choose,” she said. It ’s a shame you’re ever 
naughty. Here, Joe,” she added, “you may have my plate of 
porridge, instead of the one Will peppered.” 

“No,” said Joe, turning resolutely from the table. “Will 
is taking all the punishment, and so he must have the porridge. 
Get ready, Bob, and I ’ll bring up the horse.” 

So at last she really did get off, and the difficulties which 
had beset her path only served to make her ride the more 
charming, by contrast. There was a fine breeze blowing, and 


o’er moor and fen. 


133 


“ Cat’s-paw,” more lively than usual, actually consented to a frol- 
icsome gallop, which was quite remarkable in an animal of his 
ruminative habits, and, as a reward, Bob allowed him to browse 
beside the wood for a while, whilst she wandered on foot into 
its shady depths, to gather wild flowers and berries. 

Suddenly there came the report of a gun, and then a faint 
cry of pain. 

Roberta’s first impulse was to return to her horse, but the 
howling of a dog next attracted her attention, and she paused, 
undecided which way to go. The howling became more and 
more distinct, and, feeling cefftain that some animal had been 
accidentally wounded, she was about to go to its assistance, 
when a large white setter bounded out from the bushes, showing 
every sign of delight and recognition when he saw her. 

“Brush! ” she exclaimed, for it was Jack’s dog, “where is 
your master? did he shoot you, old fellow ? ” but Brush was too 
active upon his feet to have been wounded ; yet he never ceased 
his plaintive cry, and even seemed to be anxious far her to 
follow him into the bushes. 

“ Where is Jack? ” asked Bob again, and at the mention of 
his master’s name the intelligent animal plunged into the 
thicket, pausing and looking back continually to see if she were 
following him. 

And she did follow ; her curiosity was excited by the dog’s 
remarkable behavior, and gathering her riding-skirt about her, 
she also plunged into the thicket and walked on, doing her best 
to keep the restless creature in sight, until he suddenly bounded 
away to the right, and came to a stop, with another prolonged 
howl, beside some dark object lying stretched upon the ground. 

It was a human being. Roberta could see that from where she 
stood, but who can describe her anguish when, on approaching 
nearer, she recognized Brush’s master in the recumbent figure. 

12 




134 


o'er moor and fen. 


“Jack ! Jack! ” she cried, throwing herself upon the grass 
beside him, but no response came from the pallid lips, so ready, 
usually, to answer to her call. 

She brushed back the hair from his forehead, then moved 
her hand quickly from his head to his heart, and gazed intently 
at him. No sign of Jife — he neither spoke nor stirred. Pale, 
still, and rigid were his features — a strangely unfamiliar mask 
for light-hearted Jack to wear. 


CHAPTER II. 

BEHOLDING HEAVEN AND FEELING HELL. 

u For the witch hath sworn to catch thee,- 
And her spells are on the air. 

* Thou art fair, fair, fatal fair,’ 

O Irene ! ” 

A RTHUR LEIGHTON had deferred the reading of Elsie's 
letter until after her departure, as she had desired, and 
when he had read it, its contents had occasioned him more 
amusement than alarm. True as steel himself, it was at first 
impossible for him to believe her assertion that Annida was 
playing a double game, and would eventually marry his rival, 
and the only part of the revelation which gave him a moment’s 
uneasiness, was Elsie’s discovery of the tender relation in which 
he stood towards her cousin. 

“ My poor darling, how could she have been so misunder- 
stood? ” he said, with a pitying smile for Elsie’s youthful igno- 
rance (for he could not but believe that she had acted conscien- 
tiously), and he had watched eagerly all that day for Annida 
to appear and give him her version of the conversation of the 


o'er moor and fen. 


135 


evening before ; but, as has been already said, she kept her room 
all day, and he was summoned to town without having achieved 
the desired interview. 

His first impulse on leaving had been to destroy the note, 
but on second thoughts he had transferred it to his letter-case, 
and there it confronted him every time he had occasion to look 
at a letter or private paper. Seeing it thus constantly before 
him, he read it over carefully more than once, and each read- 
ing had contrived to impress the seeming truthfulness of its 
contents more and more upon his mind. In vain he told him- 
self that Annida was true — in vain he searched the note for some 
sign of an enemy’s malice. The most determined calumniator 
could not but have read in every line the sense of duty which 
prompted it, and the distress of the writer at the part she felt 
herself obliged to act. 

At length his anxiety became intense. He endeavored to 
write to Annida, but, after having begun and destroyed several 
letters, he gave up the attempt to express himself on paper, and 
determined to retrace his steps to Beechcroft, where he would 
have his fears at once confirmed or set at rest forever. 

Thus it happened that, on a pleasant afternoon, as Eleanor 
Marston sat alone reading on the terrace, a shadow fell upon 
her book, and, raising her eyes, she encountered those of Arthur 
Leighton. 

“Why, Mr. Leighton,” she said, smiling, “there is some- 
thing decidedly ‘ uncanny ’ about you. One day you disappear 
without a word of farewell or apology, to appear some weeks 
after without the slightest previous warning. Confess honestly 
now where you have been, for I really think I can detect a 
smell of brimstone about you.” 

* Arthur laughingly disclaimed having been to any warmer 
climate than the city of New York, and inquired rather eagerly 
why she was alone, and how and where were her companions, 


i3 6 


o’er moor and fen. 


“Maude,” she said, “was within, writing to Elsie, and Miss 
De Luce was somewhere about the grounds with Mr. Strath- 
more. Would Mr. Leighton like to look for them? She would 
accompany him in the search if he so desired.” 

But he did not care to go — was much too comfortable where 
he was, and if Miss Marston would just allow him to lie on the 
grass at her feet, he would be as happy as man could well be ; 
and throwing himself down as he spoke, he was, to all outward 
seeming, perfectly contented with his situation, although in- 
wardly he was suffering torture from this partial confirmation 
of the information he had received from Elsie. 

Suddenly it struck him that the girl beside him had known 
Elsie from childhood, and, could he manage the conversation 
adroitly, he might glean from her some valuable knowledge of 
her friend’s character; so he introduced the subject, and Eleanor, 
too pleased to find a common source of interest, at once took 
her cue, and launched into such a verbose description of Elsie’s 
many excellences, that long e’er she ceased, Arthur had heard 
more than enough, and tried vainly to stem the torrent. 

He had heard everything but that which he wished to hear, 
and feeling convinced that frankness was his only course of 
action, he suddenly raised himself from his recumbent position, 
and said, in a straightforward way : 

“ Miss Marston, did your friend tell you that she had written 
me a note on the eve of her departure?” 

Nellie looked very much surprised. “No,” she ’feaid, after 
a moment’s pause, “she did not mention it to me.” 

“It was a note of some importance,” continued Arthur, 
“inasmuch as its purport was to warn me against trusting one 
who I have always considered as a true friend, but who, Miss 
Elsie would have me believe, is guilty of unspeakable treachery. 
Now, I shall be sincerely grateful to you, Miss Marston, if you 


o’er moor and fen. 


137 


will be candid with me and tell me what motive you think in- 
duced your friend to write to me thus. Do not answer my 
question if it troubles you to do so, but if you do answer it, 
tell me nothing but the plain, unvarnished truth, for my life’s 
happiness may hang on your words.” 

Eleanor’s pale cheeks grew rosy from embarrassment, and 
she could think of nothing to say. What was it Arthur wished 
of her ? Of course, if Elsie had written it was because she had 
some powerful reason for so doing, but how could she, Nellie, 
conceive of that reason when she was entirely ignorant of the 
contents of the note ? 

Noticing her embarrassment, Arthur said, gently : 

“ I do not wish to annoy you, but do you think that Miss 
Elsie could have been induced to write a defamatory note 
through a desire of revenge or a feeling of jealousy? ” 

Now Eleanor saw her way clear, and answered at once, and 
decisively. 

“ Never ! Elsie Von Decker is incapable of such conduct, 
Mr. Leighton ; and if you had paid her even ordinary attention 
during your visit here this summer, I should have thought you 
must have discovered that fact for yourself. Excuse me, but I 
do not think Miss Von Decker knows that you are here, so I 
will go to the house and tell her, if you will allow me to 
pass. ’ ’ 

She arose as she spoke, and Arthur made way for her, too 
much overcome b}* her verdict to make even a polite attempt to 
detain her. 

“You think, then,” he said, slowly, “that she would have 
asserted nothing that she did not know to be true, and that I 
am safe in believing that she tells me, not that which might be, 
but which is ? ” 

“Assuredly,” said Eleanor, indignant at the question, and 


o’er moor and fen. 


•38 

she swept past him on her way to the house, half inclined to 
believe that he was making fun of her, and had received no note 
at all. 

Meanwhile, where was Annida ? As the old proverb has it, 
she was making hay whilst the sun shone, and feathering her 
nest with down. 

She had left her room that afternoon with the determination 
of bringing things to a crisis. It was more than a month since 
Elsie’s departure, and who could be certain that the child 
would not write to Strathmore, and ruin her prospects ? and then 
Arthur might return any day, and she shuddered at the thought 
of again encountering him before anything was definitely settled 
in regard to the future, lest her truant heart should play her 
false, and persuade her to put off the sacrifice of love and 
honor to the greed for wealth and position. 

Leonard Strathmore was fascipated by this woman, and was 
never so happy as at her side. His admiration for Elsie had 
died in a single night, and Annida had him fast bound in 
chains ; nevertheless, he would not come to the point, and she 
grew anxious, fearing lest some untoward accident should dash 
this cup also from her lips, and she should be compelled to pass 
her days in a miserable remembrance of all that she might 
have possessed, but had missed. 

She had dressed herself with particular care, and not an art 
was left untried by which she could enhance her loveliness. 

“It is high time things were settled,” she had said, and she 
spoke but the truth, for every moment brought Arthur Leigh- 
ton a step nearer Beechcroft, and Leonard Strathmore awaited 
her in the parlor. 

There she joined him, with flushed cheeks and sparkling 
eyes, dimples coming and going with every smile, and Leon- 
ard thought she had never looked so lovely, nor ever dreamed 


o’er moor and fen. 139 

that those ruby lips could say: “It is high time things were 
settled.” 

They wandered out to the garden ; they strayed about among 
the flowers, talking those aimless nothings with which persons 
are apt to stave off serious converse when they are uncertain 
of the issue. But time was flying, and there was none to lose, 
for Arthur was nearly at the park gate. They drifted into a 
garden seat, “cast anchor,” and sat down, not much nearer 
port, however, than when they had left the house. 

The conversation flagged, and a sweet, dreamy silence stole 
over them, during which Leonard sat lost in admiration of the 
beautiful woman beside him, but, to her great aggravation, he 
gave her no more satisfactory evidence of the fact than a tender 
glance of the eye, which, with all her native genius, she found 
it impossible to construe into an offer of marriage. 

“ How shall I ever bring him to the point?” she thought, 
despairingly, as the precious moments flew away, and he still 
remained gazing in pensive silence. “I must break the ice 
myself, I suppose, and lead him up to the subject.” She there- 
fore turned to him, saying, in a sweet, deprecating voice : 

“lam but a dull companion this evening, Mr. Strathmore; 
had we not better return to the house and join Miss Marston?” 

“ Do you wish to do so ? ” inquired Leonard. 

“Oh, no, I am very comfortable,” replied Annida, looking 
down bashfully; “but I feel so stupid and disinclined for con- 
versation, that I feared I was wearying you.” 

“Then let us remain where we are,” replied Leonard. 
“ Silence by your side, Miss De Luce, is more to my taste than 
the most brilliant conversation with another.” 

“You are very good to say so,” said Annida; “but you 
must forgive me if I doubt your assertion. It is hard to believe 
that my society is anything to you when I remember that it has 


140 o’er moor and fen. 

only been since my cousin left us that you have sought it at 
all.” 

“ Had you ever given me reason to suppose that my presence, 
or absence, was remarked by you,” replied Leonard, “you 
would have had no reason to complain of me, I can assure 
you. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I was not complaining,” said Annida; “I have no 
right to do that. You are, of course, at liberty to pass your 
time with whom you please. I only mentioned the fact ; it 
should be of no consequence to me.” 

“You did not care anything about it, then?” inquired 
Leonard, in a disappointed tone. “I am sorry for that ; I had 
a faint hope that it were otherwise.” 

“In other words, that I missed you sadly every day and 
hour that you passed in attendance on my cousin,” said Annida, 
with a smile. “ Is that what you wished me to say, Mr. Strath- 
more ? * ’ 

“That would be asking rather too much of you, I fear,” re- 
plied Leonard; “ but, tell me candidly, if you will, whether or 
not you have ever cared enough for any man to wish to keep 
him always at your side ? ’ ’ 

“Your question is very impertinent,” ^aid Annida, after a 
moment’s hesitation, “but since it is you that ask it, it shall be 
answered. Yes.” 

“And the happy individual?” inquired Leonard, with con- 
siderable agitation. “ Am I not to learn his name ? ” 

“That, I think, is asking rather too much of me,” replied 
Annida, gravely. “ Why should I betray my secret to you ? ” 

In her agitation she stooped to pluck a flower growing in the 
bed beside her, and forth from the gauzy folds of muslin crossed 
upon her breast, peeped a photograph, upon which Leonard 
fixed his jealous eyes. This, then, was the likeness of his rival. 


o’er moor and fen. 


141 

Oh, that kind fortune would but reveal it for a moment to his 
gaze, he thought ; and surely never did that fickle lady an- 
swer a suitor’s prayer so speedily, for even as he wished, the 
carte de visite fell at his feet, dislodged from its hiding-place 
by Annida’s efforts to secure a refractory rose-bud, which re- 
sented being plucked from its parent stem. 

Stooping quickly he secured it, saying, as he eagerly turned 
its face upwards in his hand : 

“Perhaps this will answer my question” — but all further 
words died upon his lips, as, to his infinite surprise, his gaze 
rested upon his own features. 

Annida raised her head to look at him, and apparently 
noticed her loss for the first time, as she saw the picture in his 
hand, for, uttering a little .cry of dismay, she thrust her hand 
into her bosom, and then, on drawing it forth empty, sank 
back in her seat, overcome with shame and confusion, and 
covered her face with a lace pocket-handkerchief. 

‘ ‘ What can it mean? ” thought Leonard, with beating heart, 
and then he said, in a tremulous voice : 

“ I beg your pardon, Miss De Luce, for my impertinent 
curiosity, but I trust you will tell me something of how this 
photograph came into your possession, for I do not remember 
ever having had the audacity to offer you one myself. ’ ’ 

Annida was apparently too much overcome by her feelings to 
answer immediately, but after a moment’s pause she said, in a 
smothered voice : 

“ You did not give it to me, Mr. Strathmore ; in fact, it is not 
mine. It is the one you gave my cousin some months ago. 
She left it in her room when she went away, and — I did not 
think it was wrong at the time — I appropriated it. I have no 
right to it, I know; but please do not take it from me.” 

A perfect tornado of sobs came from behind the lace screen, 


142 


o’er moor and fen. 


and Leonard, ignorant of the fact that it was “ all wind and no 
rain,” was deeply affected by her agitation. 

“ Why should I do so?” he exclaimed, almost melting into 
tears himself. “ Oh, how can you suppose for a moment that 
I would ? Am I not too happy to know that it has been honored 
with so fair a resting-place ? Why do you weep ? ” he con- 
tinued, drawing nearer to her; “ why dim those beautiful eyes 
with tears ? Of what do you accuse yourself, and why do you 
hide your face from me? The theft of the picture was no 
theft, for its rightful owner had cast it aside as a thing of no 
value, and surely you cannot think that I could rebuke you 
for your condescension in rescuing it. Dare I hope, Annida, 
that since you have treated this poor outcast with such 
angelic kindness, that you will not be less generous to the 
original ? ’ ’ 

As he spoke he took within his own the fair hand which lay 
idle on her lap, its fellow being still industriously engaged in 
wiping the tearless eyes. 

“Ah,” she said, at length, raising her beautiful, agitated 
countenance to his, “do not make my burden harder to bear. 
I thought I had known the breadth and depth of woman’s 
suffering, but I see that what I experienced whilst my se- 
cret was still my own, was nothing in comparison to the 
shame and mortification which I now feel in the knowledge 
that you, from whom above all others I would have concealed 
it, are now in possession of it.” 

Burning blushes suffused her cheek, for she felt the ignoble 
part she was playing, and her face again disappeared in her 
handkerchief, whilst Leonard continued to bend anxiously 
over her, longing to comfort yet fearing to offend. He could 
scarcely credit what he had heard, or persuade himself that this 
magnificent woman, whom he had once loved so despairingly, 


o’er moor and fen. 


143 


was throwing herself into his arms, as it were, by openly con- 
fessing her love for him; yet, taking it all in all, what else could 
it mean ? 

“Why don’t he come to the point? ” thought Annida, im- 
patiently. “Surely, I have humbled myself sufficiently,” and 
“it is,” indeed, “high time,” Annida, for Arthur Leighton 
has come, and stands not many paces from you, a silent witness 
of this, to him, incomprehensible scene. 

“Miss De Luce,” said Leonard, at length, collecting his 
scattered senses, “do I dream, or can what I have just heard 
be true ? Is it possible that I am the object of your affec- 
tion?” 

“Spare me!” she murmured, entreatingly, and the cruel 
summer breezes bore every word she uttered with painful dis- 
tinctness to the ears of the man she had so deeply wronged. 
“Do not force me to more open confession of my feelings. Be 
merciful ! do not despise me for loving you, and remember 
always that my love would have died with me, unknown, had it 
not been for an unlucky accident. ’ ’ 

“ Despise you ! ” exclaimed Leonard. “ That I could never 
do. Such love as yours demands respect. What more could a 
man ask of the gods than to hear he was beloved from such 
lips as these?” and drawing nearer he would have kissed her, 
had she not shrunk shudderingly away. It must come to this, 
of course, but she could not bear it yet, whilst the memory of 
Arthur’s last embrace was still so fresh. The silent watcher 
behind them gathered fresh courage from this impulsive move- 
ment, and once more held his head erect, prepared to interpose 
between his darling and the insolence of her presuming com- 
panion, at the first sign she should give indicative of such a 
desire, listening again with strained ears to hear her indignant 
dismissal of his rival’s suit, whilst Elsie’s warning, hid in his 


144 


o’er moor and fen. 


bosom, rose and fell with every motion of his agitated heart. 
Hush ! she is speaking. 

“Miserable woman that lam! ” she exclaimed. “What have 
I not revealed to you in my madness. Forget it, oh, forget 
it ; let this hour be as though it had never been. Do I not 
know that your heart is with my cousin ? have I not watched 
your growing love for her through all these weary summer 
months? seen her sporting with your heart as a thing of no 
account, whilst I languished for a kind word ? Giddy, 
careless child, what does she know of love? as little as a 
butterfly sporting among the flowers — as little as a dew-drop 
lying on the breast of a rose. Courted, loved, petted by all 
around her, scarcely more than a child in years, what was one 
more heart to her ? and yet she coveted what would have made 
my happiness, and, once gained, threw it from her like a faded 
flower.” 

Again her agitation overpowered her, and she paused, wait- 
ing in anxious silence for Leonard to speak, but he, apparently 
unable yet to grasp the meaning of her words, remained look- 
ing stupidly upon the ground. 

She would have liked to stamp her foot in her impatience. 
What did his silence mean? Had she stooped so low for 
nothing? Was it possible that he did not comprehend her ? or, 
horrible suggestion, could it be that he had no wish to marry 
her ? She felt she could bear no more — the scene must at once 
be ended, or she should lose her self-command — so, nerving her^ 
self for one last effort, she turned suddenly towards him, and 
bringing the powerful battery of her beautiful eyes to bear 
upon him, she exclaimed, in a melo-dramatic voice : 

“ Go, leave me, follow where your heart leads. Seek Elsie, 
secure her for your own, and be happy. Let no thought of 
me intrude to mar your bliss, — remember me only as one who 


o’er moor and fen. 


145 


crossed your life but for a brief moment, like a cloud over the 
disk of the sun, and then passed away despairingly into ob- 
scurity forever.” 

She paused again to let him speak, and not long did she 
await a response, for Leonard was no longer master of himself, 
and falling upon his knees before her, he poured out a stream 
of incoherent vows and protestations. 

“ My darling ! my darling ! ” he exclaimed ; “could you for 
one moment suppose that I love your cousin better than your- 
self? Do you not remember that long before I ever saw or 
heard of her, I knew and loved you? Yes, I have loved you 
ever since I first looked upon your beautiful face, and it was 
your own coldness, your haughty, disdainful manner which 
drove me from your side, and that alone.” 

“ And have I not atoned for that ? ” murmured Annida. 

“Aye, and so nobly too,” replied Leonard, “that my life 
alone can recompense you. Annida, the dearest wish of my 
heart is to call you my own ; will you then consent to be my 
wife ? Speak, oh, speak quickly, I implore you, and put me 
out of my suspense.” 

It had come, the long wished for proposition, and although 
she had been expecting, nay, plotting for it, for weeks past, it 
seemed to find her unprepared, for, turning very white and 
well-nigh fainting, she sank back upon her seat, and tried to 
realize what she had brought upon herself. 

Speak, Annida, your wealthy lover kneels before you a sup- 
pliant for your hand. Why waver now when the hour of your 
triumph is at hand ? Speak ! houses and lands, wealth and 
position, are all at your command. Speak ! and not only to 
Leonard Strathmore, but to that other, who, with bowed head 
and in silence, stands awaiting his doom. Speak! “ it is high 
time” for Arthur Leighton stands behind you. 

13 K 


146 


o’er moor and fen. 


Weary of waiting, longing to hold his darling in his arms, a 
loving instinct has led him hither ; once more, therefore, I say 
speak, and show him what manner of woman it is that he has 
cherished in his bosom. 

She struggled with her bad angel in mortal anguish. Oh, it 
is not easy to sell one’s soul ; and the good angel whispered of 
Arthur, saying : 4 4 How he loves you ! oh, how he loves you ! ’ ’ 
but in the end the devil conquered, and slowly and deliberately 
she spoke, each word an act of treachery against herself and 
him. 

44 What is there left for me to say? You already know I love 
you. Leonard Strathmore, if this be truth, and not a dream, 
that you would have me for your wife, then take me, — I am 
yours.” 

She sank into the arms extended to receive her ;~she laid her 
head upon his breast, and Leonard, stooping, pressed his lips to 
hers in a betrothal kiss. 

The twilight deepened, the shadows of night gathered about 
them as they sat enclosed in each other’s arms, the owls hooted 
in the trees, and a man cowered among the bushes — a miserable, 
broken-hearted wretch, moaning and clinching his teeth in an 
agony of grief — but what matters it if one man weep? another 
is happy in his stead, and so the eternal scales are balanced. 


o’er moor and fen. 


147 


CHAPTER III. 

DEEP WATERS. 

“ But as some muskets so contrive it, 

As oft to miss the mark they drive at. 

And though well aimed at duck or plover, 

Bear wide and kick their owners over.” 

T HE last feeble glimmer of daylight disappeared, and the 
night came on apace. Leonard and Annida had returned 
to the house some time before, but Arthur lingered still in the 
shrubbery, unable to face this terrible misfortune which had so 
suddenly overtaken him. 

He had loved Annida so long, and so deeply, that every hope 
and interest in life had become associated with her, and it 
seemed impossible, at a moment’s warning, to wrench his heart 
from hers. He had believed in her to the utmost bounds of 
credulity, and in return she had made him her dupe. He 
would as soon have doubted his own existence as her love and 
fidelity, and in return she had given herself to another. Even 
now he could scarcely lose all faith in her, and with eager, 
earnest love he brought to mind her words and actions in that 
memorable interview in the arbor at Strathmore Park, when 
she had told him that she should always love him, and laughed 
to scorn his foolish fears of a rival. 

But even as he thought of this, a paper rustled in his breast, 
and Elsie’s warning once more rose before him, quenching the 
faint spark of hope, which had risen only to leave him a mo- 
ment after more miserable than before. 

He started to his feet with a groan, and, anxious only to 


o’er moor and fen. • 


148 

escape the scene of his anguish, he hastily pursued the first path 
he saw, unheeding where it should lead him. 

On he rushed at headlong speed along the garden walk — 
oh, that he could outstrip himself, and leave his miseries behind 
him — and suddenly found himself on the terrace by the house, 
which was overlooked by the windows of a little boudoir, cur- 
tained off from the parlor. 

He paused ; the lights were lit, and in the full blaze of the 
tiny chandelier she stood who was all the world to him, whilst 
close beside her was his rival, one arm tenderly encircling her 
waist, whilst the hand of the other stroked and caressed the fair 
cheek and brow so near to him. 

The veins swelled upon Arthur’s forehead, a suppressed oath 
forced itself from between his clinched teeth. “ My God ! ” he 
muttered, “ could I but shoot him down like a dog as he stands 
there, I would gladly pay the forfeit of my life ; ’ ’ but, fortu- 
nately he was unarmed, save with his angry glances, and they 
fell unheeded upon the happy pair before him, who abated not 
one whit of their billing and cooing, because a madman stood 
without and cursed them. 

“Mr. Strathmore’s drag,” announced a servant, appearing 
suddenly from behind the curtained doorway, and disappearing 
with as great celerity,, when he became conscious of the mistake 
he had made in appearing at all. 

“Dearest,” said Leonard, tenderly, “I cannot leave you so 
soon to-night. I have scarcely had time to realize my happiness. 
May I not send the horses to the stable and remain with you 
for the rest of the evening ? ’ ’ 

“Need you ask my permission for that?” replied Annida, 
smiling sweetly. “ Go at once, but return quickly.” 

Leonard left the room to give the necessary orders to the 
groom, and Annida turned listlessly to a sofa, on which she 


o’er moor and fen. 


149 


threw herself, to reflect s berly on the events of the afternoon 
She was triumphant, yet she was miserable, and there being no 
reason at the moment for d sguise, her feelings were legibly 
written on her face. 

Arthur looked at her, and his angry feelings melted like hoar- 
frost in the sun. After all, she could not give him up without 
a pang. No ; to judge by her countenance and general air of 
despondency, she was suffering little less than himself and at 
this thought all his pent-up love rushed out towards her, as it 
had ever done since he had known her. A longing seized hint 
to take her in his arms once more, and chase the shadows from 
her brow — to lay the dear head upon his breast and soothe away 
her pain — to press his lips to hers, and call up again the light 
*of hope from the depths of those beautiful eyes. 

Of his wrongs he could remember nothing — he only saw that 
she was suffering, and, kneeling in the grass in outer darkness, 
he stretched out his arms in impotent anguish towards her 
figure glowing in the light. “My darling, oh, my darling,” 
came from between the parched lips, and great drops of sweat 
stood out upon his brow. 

“There, that business is satisfactorily disposed of,” said 
Leonard, returning and taking his seat beside Annida, “and 
now give me one more kiss to certify me that this is not all a 
beautiful dream.” 

Annida turned her face towards him, and at the same time 
towards the window, and if Arthur had needed further proof of 
her power to make herself that which she chose, he had it now, 
in the expression of that face, and the subtle, false smile upon 
it, which had been his yesterday, was his rival’s to-night, and 
heaven alone knew whose it might be on the morrow. Surely 
the terrified, horror-stricken face without had affected, by some 
strange magnetism, the beautiful one within, for Annida 

13* 


o’er moor and fen. 


150 

shuddered violently on her comfortable sofa, with her lover’s 
arms around her, and prayed him to close the window. It was 
done, and the picture within the little room which had fasci- 
nated, whilst it filled him with despair, was shut out from 
Arthur’s gaze, and he was alone with his misery. 

He rose once more to his feet, and staggered from the house. 
On he went, up one pathway, down another. What mattered it 
now where he went, or what became of him ? there was not in 
the whole world one human being left to cheer him if he lived, 
to mourn him should he die. For that false woman who had just 
now shut him out in the darkness, he had given up friends and 
kindred ; for her he had refused a princely offer from his uncle, 
because, forsooth, he must marry according to that uncle’s 
wishes, and sacrifice his love. 

The night wpre on, and still he wandered, nor thought of 
taking shelter. Now and again his weary limbs refused to 
support him, and then he would sink down upon the ground 
for a time, and remain lying prostrate, until the agony of his 
mind overcame his physical suffering, when he would rise again 
and resume his dreary march, turning over and over the pages 
of his life’s romance, and writing upon his heart with a burn- 
ing brand, the little word, “ Finis.” 

Thus the morning dawned upon him, and he shuddered at 
the light, praying the darkness to cover him once more — to 
hide him from himself and others — or, if possible, to utterly 
annihilate the miserable spark of life within him. 

Then nature awoke to life. The birds twittered in the trees, 
the cocks crew loud and long, a welcome to the morning. 
Then the low of the distant cattle was heard, and the milk- 
maid’s early “matins,” after which the great house was un- 
locked and unbarred, and the sunlight streamed into the little 
room which had last night so engrossed his attention. 


o’er moor and fen. 1 5 i 

Then the voice of the gardener greeted his ear, and he 
started to his feet, realizing suddenly that he was still at Beech- 
croft, notwithstanding his nightly wanderings, and that if he 
was discovered, some explanation of his conduct must be 
offered : so he hastened out of the grounds and down fhe hill, 
pausing only at a little wayside inn to rearrange his dishevelled 
toilet and swallow a cup of coffee, after which he pursued his 
way towards the boat-landing, choosing the most circuitous 
route, lest he should encounter some of his acquaintaftces. 

His intention was to leave instantly and unnoticed for the 
city, and, once there, to settle his plans at his leisure, when he 
should have become more composed, but the fates had decided 
against his return that morning, and probably smiled a smile 
of superior intelligence as they saw him making his way towards 
the boat with so determined an expression of countenance. 

“Pause a while, young man,” they said, and he at once 
complied, for his astonished eyes suddenly rested upon an 
antiquated quadruped of the horse species tied carelessly to a 
tree. Every portion of his body, except that covered by a 
lady’s saddle, was a prey to horse-flies and mosquitoes, which 
his poor little stump of a tail found it impossible to wage war 
against successfully, and as Arthur gazed in mute surprise, a 
sound came from among the bushes, and a clear, fresh, young 
voice cried, “ Help ! help ! ” in tones of the deepest distress. 

Misanthropic as he now felt, there was something in this 
voice which stirred his chivalry, and, springing lightly over the 
fence, he made his way in the direction from which it had pro- 
ceeded, calling aloud meanwhile to herald his approach. 

“Iam coming,” he shouted. “ Where are you? ” 

“ Here, to the right,” replied the voice, and a few more steps 
brought him to the scene of Jack’s disaster. 

Bob was still upon the grass beside him, and she had man- 


152 


o’er moor and fen. 


aged to raise his head upon her lap, but although she had made 
every effort to restore his consciousness, he still remained as 
pale and motionless as a corpse. 

In a few words she explained to Arthur all that she knew of 
the circumstances, which, indeed, was not much, and ended by 
saying : 

“ He is not dead, for I have felt his heart beat several times, 
yet I cannot arouse him to consciousness.” 

Arthur kneeled upon the grass, and taking Jack’s hand within 
his own, placed his fingers on his pulse. 

“Yes,” he said, “he is still alive, for his pulse is beating, 
though very slowly and irregularly. What can have caused so 
strange an attack ? ’ ’ 

He moved his hand upward, and pushing aside Jack’s shoot- 
ing-jacket, placed it upon his heart, but brought it back a 
moment or two after quite wet with blood ; and on opening 
the coat and vest, his shirt-sleeve was found to be completely 
saturated, which readily accounted for the poor fellow’s pro- 
longed swoon. 

“We must get him home at once,” said Arthur, “before he 
loses anymore strength; but, wait a moment — is not your house 
the nearest, Miss Stevenson ? Could you not get on your horse 
and bring assistance from thence, whilst I examine the wound 
and endeavor to stanch the blood ? ’ ’ 

Bob expressed her willingness at once, and was gone almost 
before he had ceased speaking. She was not obliged to go all 
the way home, however, for a countryman was leisurely driving 
a pair of sleek, over-fed animals in a covered wagon, which con- 
tained butter, eggs, etc., intended for the early city market, 
and when Bob had told her story, with all the eloquence she 
could command, he instantly complied with her request, and, 
leaving his horses in her charge, proceeded to aid Arthur in 


o’er moor and fen. 153 

carrying the unconscious Jack to his wagon, where he was 
settled as comfortably as the accommodations would allow. 

Bob still supporting his head, and Arthur upon the front seat 
beside the driver, the horses’ heads were turned, and they drove 
slowly towards the Stevensons, “Cat’s-paw,” like a well-bred 
horse, following in the rear. 

They lumbered up to the door at last, just as Bob thought 
they never would come to the end of their journey, and she 
could not comprehend how everything at home should be so 
precisely as she had left it, when she herself had endured such 
agony of mind. It seemed weeks instead of hours since she had 
left the house in the morning, and yet the breakfast-table was 
still uncleared, Spencer and Joe were ringing changes on the 
verb amo in a dreary tone of desolation, and through the study- 
window came Will’s monotonous voice as he droned out the 
words his father dictated to him, before committing them to 
paper, to prevent all mistakes. 

“As we see in the 1 Descent of man,’ ” said Mr. Stevenson, 
sonorously. 

“I wonder if it was the man in the moon, who came down 
too soon?” thought Will. “Descent of man,” he drawled 
out. 

“The homological structure of man, his embryological 
development, and the rudiments which he still retains, all 
declare in the plainest terms that he is descended from some 
lower form.” 

“ Gracious heavens ! ” thought Will. “ I no longer wonder 
that the poor fellow ‘ inquired his way to Norwich.’ He must 
have been puzzled by such long words.” 

“Go on, sir, go on,” said his father, impatiently; “you 
stem the tide of my eloquence by your dilatoriness. Write 
what I have just said, and repeat it as you write.” 


154 


o’er moor and fen. 


“The homononsensical spectre of man,” stammered Will, 
“his embryosurgical envelopment, and the sediments which he 
still restrains, all declare in the plainest of sperms that he is 
distracted from some lower scum. Isn’t that correct?” he 
faltered, suddenly meeting his father’s eye fixed upon him in 
glowing indignation, and perhaps it was well that Bob entered 
just at that moment, and drew her father’s attention upon her- 
self and her story. 


CHAPTER IV. 

OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE. 

“ What makes all doctrines plain and clear ? 

About two hundred pounds a year. 

And that which was proved true before, 

Prove false again ? Two hundred more.” 

A H ! yes, my dear, it is sad, very sad indeed,” said Mr. 

Stevenson, in his peculiar slow way, when Bob had fin- 
ished her story ; but his absent manner, and the vague, dreamy 
expression of his eyes, told his daughter plainly that he but half 
understood her situation, and that his mind was still concen- 
trated upon his books. 

She stood silent and motionless before her father for a few 
moments, and tried to make up her mind as to the course she 
had best pursue, for she felt quite hopeless of receiving any 
advice from him in his present mood ; but he seemed to become 
suddenly aware that she had expected something more of him, 
and, starting like one from a dream, he tried to recall at least a 
part of what she had just told him. 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


155 


As a poor wretch returning to the bosom of his family from a 
convivial meeting on a Saturday night, although bent on prov- 
ing himself sober and with the best intentions of keeping the 
perpendicular, will from necessity sway right and left, and end 
finally by stretching his length upon the ground, so this man, 
drunk from the fount of learning and with his brain steeped in 
the muddy mysteries of the past, struggled vainly to prove him- 
self clear-headed, and preserve his mental equilibrium. 

“You said that you had brought some one home with you, 
did you not? ” he asked, at length, in a hesitating way. 

“Yes, sir,” replied Bob, very agreeably surprised to hear 
that even this much of her tale had been remembered. “ Jack 
Von Decker,” she continued, endeavoring to supply the “miss- 
ing link ” for which she perceived him groping. 

“ Oh, it was Mr. Jack that brought him home, was it? ” said 
her father, feeling now quite sure that he was walking in a 
straight line. “ It was very kind of him — that is, quite proper, 
I mean ; and — a-hem ! what do you and Mr. Jack propose to 
do with him, now that he is here ? ” 

Bob’s heart once more sank within her, but she said, as 
calmly as she could, “ That is what I came to consult you about, 
sir, ’ ’ and would have patiently recapitulated the case, had she 
not seen a look of placid despair passing over her father’s face 
as he clasped and unclasped his white, nerveless fingers. 

“ Pray don’t do that, my dear ! ” he exclaimed, in a tone of 
distress. “ I have no time this morning to enter into domestic 
details; besides which, you surely have more experience in 
these matters than I have.” 

Here he interrupted himself suddenly, and came to a full 
stop, for something in his daughter’s face told him that this 
last speech was a dreadful divergence from the straight line ; 
then, with a desperate effort to regain his course, he went on 
again, saying hurriedly : 


156 


o’er moor and fen. 


“In the house, I think you said? Ah! yes; very well, let 
him stay here then by all means. Any friend of Mr. Von 
Decker’s is welcome to my hospitality, I am sure. Make him 
comfortable, my dear; get him a — a — book, and — and — 
something to eat. ’ ’ 

Thus speaking he waved his daughter from him with a tri- 
umphant smile, nor ever dreamed that (to continue the figure) 
he “had stretched his length upon the ground.” 

Bob slowly turned and left the room, wondering much within 
herself that past experience had taught her so little. Since her 
mother died had she ever received any advice or assistance 
from any one ? Never ; and yet she continued to look, long, 
and ask for it, although she always met with a rebuff. Sadly 
she retraced her steps to the parlor, where she had left Jack in 
Arthur’s care to await the arrival of the physician, who had 
been immediately summoned, but the latter was coming to seek 
her, and they met half way. 

“ Miss Stevenson,” he said, as he approached, “ the doctor is 
here, but he says that he cannot properly examine Jack’s wound 
in his present position, and that it is impossible that he should 
be moved until he has done so. I see nothing that we can do, 
therefore, but throw ourselves upon your hospitality, and ask 
the favor of board and lodging for a little while. What do you 
say ? can you accommodate us ? ” 

“Oh, certainly,” said Bob, impulsively. “Carry him up- 
stairs, by all means;” but a moment after she almost regretted 
her hasty assent, as she wondered where on earth she should put 
him. The house was singularly uncomfortable and incom- 
modious, and the upper rooms, with two exceptions, looked 
more like soldiers’ barracks than anything else, owing to the 
untiring mischief of the boys. To these exceptions, therefore, 
she turned her attention, and perceiving at a glance that it 


o’er moor and fen. 


15; 


would not do to dispossess her father, who was the occupant 
of the first, she had Jack conveyed, without more ado, to the 
second, namely, her own little bed-chamber, where he was laid 
upon the small bed with its snowy coverings, which had been 
hers ever since she had been old enough to sleep alone. 

The examination of the wound in Jack’s shoulder did not 
consume much time, and was pronounced by the physician to 
be, in itself, of small importance. “ But,” he said to his patient, 
who had now recovered his consciousness, and, with much con- 
fusion, confessed to having carelessly shot himself, “ young 
gentlemen who endeavor to play cricket with loaded fire-arms 
must expect to experience some discomfort from it, and, owing 
to the great loss of blood which you have sustained, sir, you 
will be unable to leave your bed for some days to come.” 

“ I am afraid my friends will be the ones to suffer in that 
case,” said Jack, with a smile; “and, by the way, will some 
one please send the old lady word, that, like the ancient and 
respected female who resided under a hill, * I am not dead, 
but live here still.’ ” 

His wishes were complied with at once, and the poetical 
message forwarded to Beechcroft ; not to “the old lady,” 
however, but to Maude, who, without loss of time, prepared to 
go to her brother and ascertain the extent of his injuries, be- 
fore she told her mother anything about his accident. 

Great had been Eleanor’s astonishment the evening before 
when Arthur Leighton had so mysteriously disappeared, but 
the announcement of Annida’s engagement to Leonard Strath- 
more, which took place later in the evening, had for the time 
obliterated the remembrance of it from her mind ; now, how- 
ever, when the messenger brought a note from him, dated from 
the Stevensons, she recalled his curious conduct, and mentioned 
it to the others of the family. 


153 


o’er moor and fen. 


A painful foreboding of the truth seized Annida as she 
listened to Eleanor’s story, and, when Maude appeared ready 
dressed for her expedition, her astonishment was great at find- 
ing Annida awaiting her, also dressed for a drive, and to hear 
that she purposed accompanying her. 

“ I shall be very glad to have company, but I should never 
have thought of asking you to come with me,” said Maude, as 
they set off together in the little pony carriage, “for engaged 
girls are usually too much absorbed in themselves to give heed 
to the woes of others.” 

“ I am well aware that anything I may try to do for you is 
liable to misinterpretation,” said Annida, “and that you never 
look for any good from me, but I always try to do what I think 
right, notwithstanding,” and then the two girls continued their 
way in silence. 

On arriving at the Stevensons they were at once ushered up 
to Jack’s room, where he lay very snug and comfortable, al- 
though still suffering from exhaustion. Arthur, who stood 
beside him, could not restrain a start as Annida entered so 
unexpectedly, and his pallor was extreme as he took her out- 
stretched hand and endeavored to return her greeting. Both 
the start and the change of color were apparent to Annida, and 
her pulses quickened with apprehension. He suspected some- 
thing, that was evident ; but oh, how much did he know ? She 
asked herself the question again and again, until her anxiety 
became almost insupportable. 

“Do you think you treated me well, yesterday?” she said 
at last, looking up into his face with a beguiling smile, when 
they found themselves, comparatively speaking, alone (for 
Maude and Jack were absorbed in each other). “ How is it that 
you found time to pay Miss Marston a visit, but could not wait 
a few moments to see me? ” 


o’er moor and fen. 


159 


“I heard that you were so agreeably occupied,” replied 
Arthur, endeavoring to speak calmly, “that I did not like to 
interrupt you.” 

“ Foolish boy,” she said, speaking in a still lower key; “are 
you growing jealous again ? ’ ’ 

“Jealous?” repeated Arthur. “Oh, no; to be jealous it is 
necessary to have a claim on a person’s affections, and I have 
none on yours.” 

It was now Annida’s turn to change color, as she said, with 
suppressed emotion : “ What can you mean, Arthur ? I thought 
we settled all our difficulties on the day of the picnic. Did 
you not then promise never to distrust me again ? ” 

She looked so truthful, loving, and innocent as she stood 
beside him in the partially darkened room, that Arthur felt 
disposed to believe all that he had witnessed was but a dream, 
and with a voice full of emotion, exclaimed : 

“ Tell me once more, Annida, that your heart is mine — that 
I need fear no other man on earth — that to me, and me only, 
shall pertain the right in the future to call you ‘wife,’ and I 
will once more own myself in the wrong, and sue for pardon.” 

Annida was unprepared for this outburst, and could not at 
once frame a suitable reply. She wished to allay his suspicions 
and retain his love, yet she felt that matters had gone so far 
now with Leonard, that it would be hardly possible to keep her 
engagement a secret much longer ; which then was the better 
course to pursue — to acknowledge it openly to Arthur and trust 
to her influence to make him believe that this marriage was 
forced upon her ? or brave it out to the end, and try to keep 
him in ignorance ? Whichever was best, she could say nothing 
where she was, with the constant fear of interruption before 
her ; she, therefore, turned silently from him, and passed out of 
the door, ‘motioning him to follow her. 


i6o o’er moor and fen. 

Their withdrawal was unperceived by the brother and sister, 
and they proceeded to the parlor without interruption. Once 
within, and the door closed, Annida turned towards her lover 
a passionate, glowing countenance, and, standing directly before 
him, exclaimed : 

“ And now, Arthur Leighton, that we are alone, what is it 
that you wish me to tell you ? Put your fears into words, and 
I will do my best to answer you truly.” 

“ Tell me, then,” said Arthur, approaching nearer and laying 
a hand upon either shoulder, “whether or not you are true to 
me ! Answer me as you would your Maker, Annida, do you 
love me ? ’ ’ 

“ More than life,” replied the girl, looking him full in the 
eyes, and for once she spoke the truth. 

Arthur read it in the tender depths of her eyes, in the chang- 
ing color of her cheek, in the quiver of the beautiful red, 
tremulous lips, and he stood for a moment gazing at her in 
silent wonder. Recovering himself, at length, he said, in a low, 
distinct voice, whilst his eyes continued to search hers : 

“ Why, then, have you given yourself to another? ” 

His words took her entirely by surprise, proving, as they did, 
that he knew the worst, and, at a loss- for a response, overcome 
by her emotion, she could no longer meet his gaze, but veiled 
her eyes with their long lashes, whilst her whole frame quivered 
under his grasp. 

A gasping sob escaped him at this silent corroboration of his 
fears, and he tightened his hold upon her, as though he feared 
she would attempt to evade his question by a sudden retreat. 

“ Answer me,” he continued, fiercely. “ To whom are you 
acting a lie ? Which is your dupe — myself, or the man in whose 
arms I saw you lying only last evening ? By heaven ! you 
shall speak the truth now, if never again in this life.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


161 


Every vestige of color forsook Annida’ s cheek, and she once 
more raised her eyes and gazed appalled at the sudden trans- 
formation of her usually tractable lover. She could scarcely 
recognize him in the fiery, furious man before her, whose tight 
grip upon her shoulders had become absolutely painful, and, 
indeed, at the moment, he was beside himself with rage and 
misery, and an object to strike terror to the heart of a woman 
against whom his anger was directed. 

But Annida was not intimidated. Whatever her faults, she 
was no coward, and she at once perceived the necessity of im- 
pressing this fact upon him ; collecting herself, therefore, she 
said, with calm dignity : 

“ If you will release me, sir, and act as a gentleman should, 
I will answer any questions you may put to me, but no force 
will ever wrest from me a syllable.” 

Recalled to himself by her conduct, Arthur at once released 
her, and, with a few muttered words of apology, pushed a chair 
towards her, whilst he took possession of one directly oppo- 
site. 

“Now that we are properly situated, in regard to les con- 
venances ,” he said, sarcastically, “would you be so good as 
to tell me to whom you consider yourself engaged ? It may be 
impertinent curiosity, but I must confess to an earnest desire for 
the information. Miss De Luce, do you propose marrying me?” 

“No,” replied Annida, in a low, yet distinct voice, and 
with her eyes fixed full upon him. 

Arthur gasped as though some one had thrown cold water 
upon him, but he continued, calmly : 

“ Do you then think of wedding Mr. Strathmore? ” 

“ I promised to do so last evening,” replied Annida ; but this 
time her voice faltered slightly, and it was with an effort that 
she preserved her composure. 

14 * 


L 


62 


o’er moor and fen. 


Silence ensued for a few moments, and then Arthur essayed 
to speak. Rising from his seat, he slightly inclined his head 
towards her, saying : 

“ Many thanks for your frankness, which comes none too 
soon. I am answered ; there is nothing for me to say, but to 
offer you my congratulations, and — and — ” but his feelings 
overmastered him, he could say no more, and with a feeble cry, 
he fell prostrate at her feet. 

In a moment she was on the floor beside him, and he rallied 
from his sudden faintness to find himself cradled in her arms, 
to feel her hot tears falling on his face, to be wiped away next 
moment with burning, passionate kisses. 

“ Oh, my darling/’ she cried, “ do not make my task harder 
than it already is. Judge by your own feelings what my misery 
is, and be merciful. I must settle myself in life, and you well 
know that I cannot marry you ; why not then accept, as I do, the 
inevitable, and help me to bear my burden ? * 

“Do you realize what you are asking ? ” exclaimed Arthur, 
staggering once more to his feet; “do you think I could 
patiently bear an eternal separation from you?” 

“Your position would be no worse were I to marry than it is 
now,” said Annida, hurriedly. “ Are we not doomed, as it is, 
to live apart? The only difference it could make would be 
that I should be independent of my rich relations, and with 
means enough at my disposal to further _ your interests, and 
advance you in some congenial career.” 

“You are then perjuring yourself on my account,” said 
Arthur, slowly. 

“Yes,” she replied. “It is best for us both that I should 
marry, and when Leonard Strathmore took me by surprise last 
evening with an avowal of his love, I felt that .for both our 
sakes I must sacrifice my over-sensitive feelings.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


163 


“ His offer of marriage took you by surprise, then ? ” inquired 
Arthur, looking keenly at her, whilst his hand strayed instinc- 
tively towards his waistcoat-pocket, where Elsie’s note of warn- 
ing lay hidden. “ You, of course, knew nothing of his love until 
he revealed it yesterday, and are innocent of all charge of 
duplicity towards the man you professed to love ? You never 
dreamed of being Leonard Strathmore’s wife before last 
night?” 

“ How can you accuse me, even in jest, of such unworthi- 
ness?” she answered, reproachfully. “Could you continue to 
love one whom you deemed capable of following such a 
course ? ’ ’ 

“On my honor, no,” replied Arthur, with a strange, un- 
natural smile, “and to prove it to you — ” 

“ Hush,” interrupted Annida, suddenly, with a warning ges- 
ture, as the door opened and Maude appeared, followed closely 
by Bob. 

“What do you think of your brother, Miss Von Decker?” 
said Arthur, quietly, as they entered the room. 

“I do not know what to think, Mr. Leighton,” she replied; 
“he would joke, you know, if he was going to die, so his 
cheerfulness is no sign that his wound is slight.” 

“But the doctor assured us that such was the case,” said 
Bob; “did he not, Mr. Leighton?” and she turned to Arthur 
to corroborate her words. 

“Certainly,” he replied. “He told us there was no possi- 
ble cause for uneasiness, and that a few days’ good nursing 
would make him all right again.” 

“ But how is he to be well nursed so far from home? ” said 
Maude. “It is very absurd, I think, that we may not take him 
back with us. Certainly there is no room here for any more 
of us to come as nurses,” and she looked around contemptu- 


164 


o’er moor and fen. 


ously upon the small and meanly furnished apartment in which 
she stood. 

The hot blood rushed to Bob’s cheeks as she noted the ex- 
pression of Maude’s face, and she made haste to enter the lists 
for the protection of her household gods. What mattered it 
if the shabby furniture was covered with common horsehair, 
the color of the carpet undistinguishable, and th'e wall-paper 
ornamented by a bordering of blue mould ; was it not her own, 
and the only home which she possessed ? And her dark-blue 
eyes flashed forth defiance at the haughty visitor who had so 
far forgotten herself as to express contempt for these precious 
relics of a past which Bob had never known. Arthur caught 
the glance, and hastened to avert the coming storm by a con- 
ciliatory speech. 

“ Indeed, Miss Von Decker,” he said, with a smile, “you 
do not do us justice. Miss Stevenson and myself propose 
nursing your brother so well, that you may congratulate your- 
self if he ever consents to return home again. Your only fear 
for him need be lest he be killedrwith kindness.” 

“ Oh, if you are going to stay* with him, that alters the case 
entirely,” said Maude, brightening at once into animation; 
“ and I cannot tell you how grateful mamma and myself will be 
to you for such kindness.” 

“Do not be too effusive,” said Arthur, laughing, “for, after 
all, I may think better of it and return to the city. My only 
reason for remaining was to be of service to Miss Stevenson, 
and prevent her from wearing herself out in attendance upon 
Jack.” 

“ Oh, I trust you will stay,” said Maude, earnestly, but with- 
out paying the least attention to Bob. “ We shall feel so much 
easier if he has some one to depend upon. Come, Annida,” 
she continued, “we must go home at once, or mamma will 


o’er moor and fen. 


165 


discover our absence. Mr. Leighton, will you send for the 
ponies, if you please? ” and with a stately bow to poor Bob she 
passed out of the room, without one word of thanks to the girl 
who had been the means, perhaps, of saving her brother’s life. 

“ I never felt so much like marrying Jack Von Decker in my 
life,” thought Bob, as she stood alone, pressing her teeth into 
her lips to keep down the storm within. “ It would be a glo- 
rious revenge,” and a furtive smile dawned in her eyes at the 
thought. “ But no,” she continued, talking to herself, “ I will 
never enter any house unwelcomed. You are safe, Master Jack, 
until your lady sister begs of me to take pity on you,” and she 
laughed a little at the idea, but her heart was very sore. 

“Take this,” whispered Arthur, pressing a folded paper into 
Annida’s hand as he took leave of her, “and when you read it, 
remember my last words.” And away dashed the ponies, bear- 
ing her from his sight all smiles and blushes, whilst she carried 
with her, all unwittingly, Elsie’s warning. 


CHAPTER V. 

TEM PEST-TOSSED. 

“ Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, 

With whom revenge is virtue.” 

L ETTERS ! letters from Paris! ” shouted Alfred and Edwin 
in a breath, as they rushed precipitately into the library 
the following morning. “ One for mamma, one for Nellie, and 
one for Maude.” 

“ How much will you bid for them, girls?” continued Al- 


1 66 


o’er moor and fen. 


fred, holding the precious missives just out of reach ; “ letter- 
carriers must be particular, you know ; I can’t give them up with- 
out a fee. ’ ’ 

“Really, boys, you are very aggravating,” said Maude, in- 
dignantly. “Give us our letters at once,” and she made a 
little angry snatch at the one nearest to her, but Alfred was too 
quick for her, and jumping nimbly to one side, he retreated to 
the door, saying, mockingly : 

“What? try to cheat the government in such a barefaced 
manner as this? Miss Von Decker, I blush for you. Pay the 
postman, ladies, or I retire with the letters.” 

Maude, who was now excessively angry, rose from her seat 
with the intention of giving chase to her brother ; but Nellie, 
who felt instinctively that such a course could but end in 
failure, laid a detaining hand upon her arm, whilst with the 
other she held out a box of bon-bons, saying, laughingly : 

“ Here then, postman, come help yourself ; but deliver the 
letters first, if you please, for I never pay for work before it is 
done.” 

Thus approached, Alfred at once delivered up his treasures, 
and departed with his pockets full of sugar-plums, very much 
pleased with the issue of affairs. 

Left once more alone, the girls eagerly opened their letters, 
and were soon absorbed in their contents. Maude’s was from 
her father, and briefly stated their safe arrival at their destina- 
tion in good health and spirits ; concise and to the point, per- 
haps, but uninteresting; let us pass on, therefore, and, peeping 
over Nellie’s shoulder, read what our golden-haired Elsie says 
of her first impressions of Paris. 

Paris, September, 1869. 

Paris! Nellie, dearest, do you realize that it is I, your 
little friend and schoolmate, who dates her letter to you from 


o’er moor and fen*. 


167 


the capital of the world ? that /am really and actually in the 
city of delights, — the “ American’s heaven ” ? To speak the 
truth, it is a continual source of wonder to me to find myself 
here, and I have been constantly rubbing my eyes ever since 
we arrived to prove whether or not all that I see and hear is a 
dream. 

Within the hotel it is hard to believe oneself in France, so 
constantly does one run against a fellow-countryman. With- 
out doubt “Meurice’s” is ’the favorite American house; unless, 
indeed, the whole of the American population emigrated at 
the same time as myself, and have inundated Paris. Outside, 
however, the case is different, and I have only to glance from 
my window along the beautiful Rue de Rivoli to convince my- 
self that this is indeed the queen of cities. 

I cannot as yet, my dear, give you any satisfaction as 
to the “manners and customs of the natives,” for we only 
arrived this morning, and, as a matter of course, my ex- 
perience is limited ; neither can I give you a graphic descrip- 
tion of all the wonders and glories which we so longed to 
behold in our childish days, when we sat side by side with arms 
entwined, in the “gloaming,” on the old oak bench in 
Madame’ s oriel window, reading or, better still, dreaming 
over some old French novel, feloniously appropriated, be- 
cause, as yet, I know nothing at all about them. 

All that I can say, then, is that if the whole of Paris is as 
beautiful as that portion of it which I saw on my way from the 
depot, and all the tables d' hotes as delightful as the one I 
found on my arrival here, I could be content to pass the rest of 
my days where I am, if only — “ Ah, that little 1 if ! ’ ” I hear 
you exclaim (and I can almost see you shaking your finger at 
me), “ that little ‘ if’ which you allow to spoil all your happi- 
ness in life.” Well, we will not dispute the point — perhaps I 
am too prone to see the disadvantages of my surroundings, as a 
general thing, but this one “if,” my darling, you must allow 
to pass, as I would say, “tf” only you were with me. 

I feel lonely and dispirited already, and I have not yet even 
seen my “prison; ” how then will it be with me when I shall 
find myself incarcerated, and papa, my last home link, shall 
have returned to America? Oh, I cannot think of it with any 


168 o’er moor and fen. 

fortitude. The tears are falling on my paper as I write ; and 
there is papa calling me to dress at once for dinner, so, au re- 
voir , 7na chere amie , and think often and sympathetically of 
Your attached friend, 

Elsie Von Decker. 

P. S. — I enclose you a little note for my cousin, and will be 
endlessly grateful if you will give it to him on some private 
occasion. It is of no importance, simply an explanation of 
certain circumstances, but Maude is so peculiar that I would 
rather you did not mention the matter to her.” 

“What a long letter Elsie has written you!” exclaimed 
Maude, in a discontented tone. “ I think she might have spared 
time to send a few lines to her sister. If you have finished 
with it, let me see what she says,” and she put out her hand to 
receive the letter. 

Poor Eleanor blushed a rosy red. What excuse could she 
give for withholding Elsie’s letter from her sister, and yet how 
impossible it was for her to surrender it. 

“There is nothing particularly interesting in it,” she faltered 
out at last ; “ but if you wish, I will read it out to you.” 

“Oh, no; pray, don’t trouble yourself to do that,” said 
Maude. “ I have no desire to intrude on your school-girl 
secrets,” and rising, she left the room with a would-be con- 
temptuous air, which badly concealed her evident chagrin, pass- 
ing Annida in the hall, who now made her appearance for the 
first time since her drive home from the Stevensons the day be- 
fore, having been ever since confined to her bed by a violent 
headache. Poor Annida ! She had not even glanced at the 
paper Arthur left in her hand when he bade her farewell, until 
she had reached her own room, fearing lest Maude’s watchful 
eyes should detect her in the act, but had placed it in her 
bosom, where it rose and fell with the palpitation of her heart, 


o’er moor and fen. 169 

as she thought of what the little rose-colored missive might con- 
tain. No idea of its real character ever crossed her mind for a 
moment, and when, once alone, she drew it forth and hastily 
opened it, it was with a glad smile of expectation on her face, 
for she had determined that it was a poem, or a love-token, at 
the least, which her repentant lover had indited to appease her 
anger, called forth by his behavior of the morning. 

Judge, then, her sensations when she slowly read the following 
words : 

Dear Mr. Leighton : 

It is very late, and my last night at home, but I feel it to 
be my duty, before I say good-bye to you, to make a confession 
of a secret which I would I could persuade myself to preserve 
inviolate ; but I cannot rest until all is told. To be brief, then. 
I was to-day an unwilling spectator of a scene between yourself 
and my cousin in the arbor at Strathmore Park, and learned 
then for the first time, and with much surprise, that you con- 
sidered her your affianced wife, for she had never given me the 
slightest hint of any connection between you, but that of the 
most platonic friendship. I could have easily forgiven this 
secrecy, however, for I can appreciate how earnestly one would 
desire to hide a passionate and apparently hopeless love from an 
unsympathetic eye ; and my heart was filled with pity for you 
both, when you hurried away at the rustling of the leaves under 
my feet, but this feeling was quickly changed to indignation as, 
with your kisses still warm upon her lips, your words of loye 
still lingering on her ear, my cousin said slowly and distinctly ] 
“Good-bye, aye, good-bye forever , Arthur Leighton. 
Would to God I could crush you from my heart as I must from 
my life. Oh, why did perverse fortune give to Leonard Strath- 
more all this wealth, and to you all my love? ” 

Horrified by these words, coming so immediately upon the 
scene I had witnessed, I followed her to her room on our return 
home, and forced from her the acknowledgment that, although 
she loved yourself, she had determined to marry Mr. Strath- 
more ; and all my persuasions have been of no avail (although 

15 


o’er moor and fen. 


170 

I have been pleading with her up to the present moment), for I 
have left her as determined on her course as I found her when I 
first broached the subject. 

And now, dear sir, I have told my tale — whether for good or 
evil, I know not ; but this I beg, that whatsoever may occur, 
you will exonerate me from any unworthy motive in writing this 
note, and believe me, as ever, 

Yours truly, 

Elsie Von Decker. 

If this note had given Arthur pain, he was now amply 
revenged, for the knowledge that she was unmasked before him, 
that the man whose esteem she valued above all the world was 
now acquainted with her as she really was, had fathomed all 
her subtle plans, and knew that she had lied to him, drove the 
iron into her soul, and made her a thing so contemptible in her 
own eyes, that she would fain have hidden from herself. 

There she sat, gazing blankly for a while at the fatal note, 
and wondering that she should have been so stupid on that last 
evening as to trust Elsie from her sight. Why had she not 
fondled instead of irritated her ? Why not have followed her to 
her room, cradled her head upon her breast, held her close in 
an embrace until the morning dawned, and Elsie passed, with 
the night’s shadows, from among them? Fool, fool, that she 
was, not to have foreseen what had come to pass, but allowed 
herself to be outwitted by a child ; and then, as the note again 
caught her eye, a storm of futile anger rushed over her soul. 
She threw it upon the floor, she stamped upon it, uttering 
meanwhile furious and incoherent invectives against the writer. 
Then she took it once more within her hands, and, tearing it 
into pieces, held towards them a lighted match, watching with 
fierce glittering eyes until the last scrap of writing was con- 
sumed, unheeding the pain caused by the bright flame’s close 
contact with the white and shapely fingers. She could have 


o'er moor and fen. 


171 


borne any. physical torture at that moment and not known it. 
She was more like a ferocious animal than a woman, and ill 
would it have fared with Elsie had she but stood within her 
reach. 

But Elsie was thousands of miles away, and there was nothing 
for Annida to do but bear the burden she had placed upon her 
own shoulders, and from which, strive as she would, she could 
never again release herself. No; the note was burned, it was 
true, but the letters had written themselves in blood upon her 
brain, and she saw them everywhere. 

“I will have my revenge, so help me heaven,” she muttered 
through her closed teeth. “ I must bide my time, but, 
sooner or later, she shall know how I can hate. I must think it 
over — but first, I must go to sleep,” and having recourse to 
her precious powders, she straightway lost all consciousness of 
pain and trouble. 

As I have already stated, she remained in* her room all 
that evening, and awoke the next morning an altered woman. 
The one softening influence, namely, Arthur’s love, had gone 
out of her life, and all that was womanly in her departed 
with it, leaving a frozen heart within a frame which, alas, 
was only too full of vitality. No likelihood that she might 
soon shake off the chains which bound her — lay down her 
disappointed life and sleep forever. No, the hot blood 
coursing through her veins, the mad passions raging in her 
breast, forbade the hope of rest, until time had laid his 
chastening finger on her pulse, and whispered, “Peace, be 
still.” 

She looked with sullen scorn upon her beautiful features re- 
flected in the mirror — she remembered with a shudder that the 
hour was at hand when she must receive her affianced husband, 
yet dressed herself with slow, methodical care, only repeating 


172 


O'ER MOOR AND FEN. 


ever the same refrain — “ I must bide my time, but she shall 
know how I can hate.” 

‘ ‘ Good - morning,” she said, smiling sweetly at Maude 
(“ I must bide my time,” still ran her thoughts). “Yes, I feel 
much better, thank you — am really quite myself again,” then 
once more the old chorus — “ She shall know how I can hate.” 

She entered the library-door with noiseless, velvety tread, and 
not until she stood close beside her, did Eleanor perceive her 
approach. She started with an exclamation as Annida laid her 
hand upon her arm, and Roy’s note slipped from her grasp and 
fell to the ground at her feet. In a moment Annida’s eye had 
recognized the handwriting, and, stooping quickly, she picked 
it up, and read the superscription. 

A fierce light of exultant and demoniacal- joy shot into her 
eyes, which she prudently veiled with her long lashes, as she put 
the note into Eleanor’s outstretched hand, saying sweetly : 

“ Letters from abroad ? May I not know what my fair cousin 
is doing in Paris?” and then, as Eleanor briefly recapitulated 
the contents of her letter, Annida said softly to herself : 

“ A secret correspondence with le beau cousin. Brava / this 
is charming ; this is romantic. Is it possible, ma cherie , that 
heaven has heard my prayers, and thrown my revenge into my 
hands so soon? Perhaps you, too, despite your childishness, 
possess a heart that may be wrung with anguish ; we can but 
try. Ha ! ha ! I bide my time , but you shall know how I can 
hate / ’ ’ 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


173 


CHAPTER VI. 

BOILED MUTTON WITH “CAPER” SAUCE. 

“ What will Mrs. Grundy say ? ” 

T HE next few days were anxious ones to Jack’s mother and 
sister, for they could only be with him at certain hours, 
and were very doubtful as to the care he received from his 
nurses during their absence. When they came to visit him he' 
was always alone, and as it was impossible for them to conceive 
that both nurses had fled precipitately when they were an- 
nounced, they of course concluded that it was thus he passed 
his days, and naturally bewailed his sad fate and solitary con- 
finement, nor noticed how restless he was during their visits, 
and how eagerly he bade them adieu. The true state of the 
case was, however, that Jack was being made of so much im- 
portance, waited on so constantly by his patient nurses, and so 
generally petted by the whole family, that he had never been 
happier in his life, and could have dispensed with his relatives’ 
assiduous visits without a sigh of regret. 

Whilst he lay immovable from weakness, and suffering acute 
pain in the swollen and inflamed shoulder, his nurses never left 
him for a moment. Now it was Bob who, with gentle touch, 
pushed back the hair from the feverish brow, and tenderly 
bathed it with some cooling liquid ; and then again it was 
Arthur, who, bending over him, loosened the tight bandage 
and gave him a moment’s relief ; thus, like figures in a dream, 
they passed and repassed before him, but one or other was 
always at his side. 

15* 


174 


o’er moor and fen. 


Then, as his convalescence progressed, and he was allowed 
more freedom from restraint, they sat together with him and 
beguiled the time by many a sprightly joke or repartee ; but at 
the sound of Maude’s low, modulated tones, or Mrs. Von 
Decker’s light step upon the stairs, they would start up like 
guilty creatures, and make good their escape as quickly as 
possible, for Arthur feared always that Annida might be of the 
party, and Bob could not recover from the wound Maude had 
given her pride on the day she had brought Jack home. 

“Why do you always run away when my mother or Maude 
come to see me? ” said Jack to her one day as she returned to 
his side after one of these absences. 

“ Why do little dogs take to their heels when they see a 
big one coming after them? ” answered Bob, with a laugh. “I 
am afraid of your august relatives.” 

“ What nonsense,” said Jack. “You have known them all 
your life, and I don’t suppose my accident has rendered them 
any more ferocious than usual.” 

“That is all you know about it,” said Bob, smiling; “but 
the ‘instinct of self preservation’ is strong within me, and 
my prophetic soul tells me that, if I am not cautious, Maude 
will bite.” 

Despite her smiling countenance, Jack perceived that some- 
thing had occurred to distress her, and there was a ring of 
sadness in her voice which his quick ear at once detected. 

He glanced anxiously at her, but could read nothing in her 
face, as she moved softly about the room, setting everything in 
order with her deft fingers, and singing to herself in a low 
voice. 

Suddenly the door flew open, and Tom appeared upon the 
threshold, saying: 

“ What will you have for dinner? ” with the air of a chef de 


o’er moor and fen. 


175 


cuisine , blessed with inexhaustible resources ; but as Jack, with a 
mischievous look in his eyes, opened his mouth to express his 
wishes, the child hastily added, to prevent all mistakes, “There ’s 
nothing but boiled mutton.” 

“Boiled mutton?” exclaimed Jack. “Ye gods, what a 
treat. Hurry, Tom, and bring me some ; I am all impatience 
to begin my feast.” Although his words were gravely spoken, 
and in apparent earnestness, there was something in his tell- 
tale eyes that instantly attracted Tom’s attention, who at once 
beat a retreat, banging the door after him with a muttered ex- 
clamation that “if he was too fine to eat mutton, he could go 
without his dinner;” after which he quietly took his seat at 
the table and paid his respects to the despised dish, totally dis- 
regarding the tray which was placed beside him for Jack’s 
dinner, although the duty of carrying it up had been, until to- 
day, his chief pleasure. 

As the moments passed, and he did not reappear, Bob began 
to be suspicious, and, excusing herself, hurriedly descended the 
stairs to the dining-room, where she arrived just in time to 
save a morsel of meat from the rapacious jaws of her brethren, 
who were apparently endeavoring to see how much could be 
consumed in a given time, and were steadily progressing from 
one end of the joint to the other with eager zest. 

All the best of it was gone, and Bob, as she perceived it, 
lost all control over her temper, and scolded them heartily all 
around, calling them “selfish, heartless little brutes,” and a 
number of similar tender and loving names, which took her 
audience completely by surprise; after which she filled the 
dishes on the tray, and, putting a double set of plates and 
knives and forks upon it, she took it in her hands and swept 
from the room like a young tornado, regardless of the many offers 
of assistance she received from the now thoroughly repentant 
boys. 


176 


o’er moor and fen. 


“Here I am at last,” she said, as she entered Jack’s room, 
with flashing eyes and cheeks all aglow, “ and it is well that I 
went down when I did, for a few moments later would have 
sealed the fate of your dinner. Meagre as the fare is, you must 
make the most of it, for it is positively all that the boys have 
left you,” and she placed the tray on the table at his side, 
looking with rueful countenance at its contents. 

“You have brought a double set of plates,” said Jack, look- 
ing inquiringly at her. 

“Yes,” she replied. “ I have invited myself to dinner with 
you, to compensate you with a ‘ feast of reason and a flow of 
soul,’ for whatever is amiss with the bill of fare.” 

“That’s jolly,” said Jack, looking thoroughly comfortable 
and very much pleased. “ * Reason ’ and ‘ soul ’ might not be 
considered the proper diet for a sick man by the uninitiated, 
but you and I know of how much use they are when taken in 
moderate quantities. Let us have the ‘soul ’ first, please.” 

“ Oh, of course, we must begin at the wrong end,” said Bob, 
blithely, “ or our century would not own us. Let us begin to 
‘ gush * at once, and picture to ourselves this mutton as a little 
lambkin, frisking about the green fields at its fleecy mother’s 
side, never dreaming in its innocence the anguish it must one 
day cause to those — who try to eat it,” she added, laughingly, 
as she perceived Jack struggling vainly to masticate the piece 
to which he had just helped himself. 

“I fear,” he said, as soon as he was able to speak, “ that 
through some fatal mismanagement that ‘ fleecy mother ’ was 
killed instead of her child. There is nothing infantine about 
this piece of meat — it is not even ‘sheepish’ — it is a veritable 
patriarchess,” and he leaned back, exhausted, on his cushions. 

“You are too particular, young man,” said Bob ; “ you have 
been bred in an epicurean school, and lost your taste for good 


1 


o’er moor and fen. 


177 


solid food. Let me set you an example of good behavior,” and 
helping herself to a slice, she made a bold attack upon it, but, 
alas, with no better success than Jack. 

“What do you think of it?” said he, laughing heartily at 
her discomfiture. “ Don’t hesitate to express your opinion — 
the animal was no relation of mine.” 

“But perhaps the shepherd was? ” said Bob, with difficulty 
articulating her words; “and on him rests the blame of having 
raised such a jaw-breaking animal. Oh!” and dropping her 
knife and fork, she too gave up the contest, and confessed her- 
self “ beaten by a sheep.” 

“Divide that other slice,” said Jack, pointing towards the 
dish ; “ perhaps it may be tenderer.” 

Bob took up the knife and fork- once more, obedient to his 
will, but after a moment’s trial she said, pathetically, “ Would 
you mind doing it by the 4 rule of three ’ ? This knife produces 
no impression on it at all.” 

“Couldn’t think of such a thing in my weak state,” said 
Jack, laughing; “ try the effect of a ‘.cutting remark.’ ” 

“Or, better still,” replied Bob, “lend me the ‘edge off 
your appetite.’ ” 

They were both laughing heartily over their own nonsense, 
as only those can laugh who have yet to experience a heart sor- 
row, when the door opened once again, and without a word of 
warning Maude stood before them. She held in her hand a 
covered basket, but beyond mutely extending it towards her 
brother, she uttered no explanation of this her second visit, 
being entirely too much overcome by the scene before her to be 
able to command language ; and poor Bob, perched upon the 
edge of the bed beside Jack, with a plate upon her knees, and 
the disorderly tray between them, felt her cheeks burning a rosy 
red beneath the scornful glance of her eye. 

M 


i7« 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ Halloo ! Maude,” said Jack, with a discomfited expression 
of countenance, “ what brought you all the way over from 
Beechcroft again? Nothing wrong there, I hope?” 

“ Oh, no,” replied his sister, recovering her composure, “ we 
are all doing very well, but mother thought perhaps some of 
Emile’s fricassee might tempt your appetite, and so I came over 
with it and one or two other trifles. I should have knocked at 
the door, but I supposed you dined alone.” 

“No harm done, since you didn’t knock the door down,” 
said Jack, gayly, recovering his spirits despite himself, at the 
sight of something that he could eat. “ Clear away the first 
course, waiter, and we will begin again,” he added, turning 
towards Bob with a bright smile. 

But Bob needed no orders, for, with a dread that Maude’s 
keen eye would take in their frugal meal, she had at once seized 
upon the tray, and was bearing it from the room, in the hope 
that she had thus concealed its contents from her view, when 
the two little words, “Boiled mutton!” fell upon her ear, 
uttered by her enemy in tones of unmitigated contempt. For 
a moment she was tempted to retrace her steps and argue the 
merits of the rejected dish, and sympathized with Tom’s violence 
at dinner-time, but sober second thought induced her to pur- 
sue her course, and the clean plates were carried up by one of 
the boys. 

Maude took them from the child’s hand, and closing the 
door upon him, set out the table with the dainties she had 
brought, cooing out meanwhile her sympathy with her brother 
thus exiled from home and home comforts, and her earnest 
hopes that he would soon be able to come among them again. 

Jack did not echo her remarks, neither did he express his 
satisfaction at the appetizing viands before him ; in fact, he 
looked so thoughtful and grave that his sister anxiously inquired 


o’er moor and fen. 179' 

what was amiss with him, and if there was anything she could 
get him. 

“No, thanks; I have everything I want,” he answered; “I 
am only waiting for Bob. I wonder where the child is? ” • 

“Washing the dishes, probably,” replied his sister, with a 
slight curl of the lip, as she seated herself decorously in a chair 
beside the bed. 

Jack looked at her, and tried to solve the puzzle as to what 
it was he wished for, and why he had so suddenly lost his 
appetite and good spirits. Maude was irreproachably dressed, 
and her every action and word bespoke the lady ; his dinner 
also was all that the most fastidious could desire, yet he missed 
Bob’s slight, symmetrical figure from its perch, and felt that her 
sparkling eyes, and hearty, unconventional laughter had been his 
best tonic ; so, taking it all in all, he began to realize that Bob 
and tough mutton were more to his taste than Maude and the 
“delicacies of the season.” 

He fidgeted about, looking gloomy and morose, for some 
minutes, interrupting Maude’s small talk every now and then 
by an impatient, “What can that girl be doing?” until his 
sister absolutely lost her patience, and exclaimed : 

“ Well, Jack, are you going to eat your dinner? or do you 
wish me to hunt up the whole Stevenson crew, and bring them 
in to partake of it with you? ” • 

“I think I told you before that I was waiting for Bob,” 
replied her brother, tartly: “she came up to dine with me, 
and we had only just began our dinner when you came in.” 

Maude’s usually pale cheeks flushed with indignation. “I 
should think,” she said, with difficulty controlling herself, 
“that it would be better for her not to dine at all, than in the 
indecorous manner in which I found her on my entrance.” 

“What do you mean?” said Jack, turning angrily towards 


i8o 


o’er moor and fen. 


her; “but don’t explain,” he added, hastily, “for you will 
only make me more angry than I am. You never can speak 
well of Bob, therefore you had better not -mention her name 
%t all.” 

“It is impossible for me to hold my peace,” said Maude, 
“when I see you deliberately falling into a snare which has 
been laid for you by as artful a girl as ever breathed.” 

“I can take care of myself, thank you,” replied Jack, “ and 
would be much obliged if you would allow me to do so.” 

“ I have no doubt you would,” said Maude; “but I have 
the interests of our family too near my heart to allow me to 
remain silent when, by speaking a word in time, I may save 
them from disgrace.” 

“ Who is going to disgrace them, Miss Von Decker ? ” said a 
clear, ringing voice beside her, and, with a start, Maude looked 
up directly into Bob’s clear, honest eyes, which were fixed 
upon her with a glance of lofty pride that fully equalled her 
own. 

“Not you, Jack, I hope?” she continued, turning towards 
him with a smile. “ Remember that I shall feel responsible for 
your conduct, hereafter, having assumed the character of nurse 
and monitor towards you, and do not throw discredit on my 
instructions. Trust in me, Miss Maude ; your brother shall not 
disgrace you,” she continued,* and once more she looked at 
Maude, with a curious expression in her eyes. 

Maude felt very uncomfortable. It was impossible to know 
how much Bob had heard of the foregoing conversation, or 
what significance there was in her words, and, being unable to 
think of any graceful method of remedying the situation, she 
determined to beat a retreat, so, rising from her seat, she mur- 
murmed some inarticulate excuses, and, with a hasty farewell, 
left the room, betaking herself to her own home, with a feeling 


o’er moor and fen. 181 

of hot indignation against poor Bob, whose only fault was that 
Jack found her more attractive than his sister. 

“Come, eat your dinner at once,” said Bob, as the door 
closed upon Maude. “ Why have you waited so long, you 
naughty boy? you have let everything get cold,” and she pro- 
ceeded to help him as quickly as possible to the tempting 
dishes set before her. 

“I have been waiting for you,” said Jack, wistfully; “I 
could not eat alone, somehow ; I lost my appetite suddenly after 
you left me.” 

“Nonsense,” said Bob, energetically; “you talk as if I had 
been breakfasting, dining, and supping with you every day 
since your accident, instead of which this is the very first time 
that I have tried it, and I think I may safely say that it will be 
the last, also.” 

“ I should like to know why? ” said Jack, quickly. “ I am 
sure the pleasantest way of taking one’s meals that could be 
imagined is this sort of jolly tete-a-tete which Maude so rudely 
interrupted, but which, if you please, we will now continue. 
Take a seat — not there,” as she moved towards Maude’s chair ; 
“get up on your perch again; you are nothing but a little 
sparrow, after all, and have no right to be putting on airs, and 
sitting in chairs. There, now we are comfortable again,” he 
continued, as she took her old seat upon the bed, and placing 
his uninjured hand upon her shoulder, he said, in a gentle, 
affectionate tone : 

“ Don’t let grown-up people put nonsense in your dear little 
head, Bobby ; we understand each other, and that is enough. ’ ’ 

“Don’t disgrace your family, Jack,” said Bob, with some- 
thing very like a sob in her voice. “Ah, I knew she would 
‘ bite ’ some day. ’ ’ 

16 


182 


o’er moor and fen. 


CHAPTER VII. 

CLANDESTINE CORRESPONDENCE. 

“Ye gods ! annihilate but space and time, 

And make two lovers happy.” 

S OME days elapsed after the receipt of Elsie’s letter before 
Eleanor found an opportunity of giving Roy his note, for, 
although he was constantly at Beechcroft, his cousin Maude 
monopolized his society, and Elsie had especially requested that 
Maude should be kept in ignorance of the fact that she had 
written to him. 

At length one day, when Jack’s recovery was declared com- 
plete, and both his mother and sister had driven over to the 
Stevensons for the purpose of escorting him home, the desired 
opportunity occurred, and Eleanor, finding him alone in the 
library, prepared with beating heart to fulfil the commission 
entrusted to her. 

It would appear, at first sight, that the giving of a note was 
not such a momentous business as to call for the amount of 
trepidation which Eleanor exhibited, and in an ordinary girl it 
would have been affectation, but she had been brought up in a 
strict, old-fashioned school, one wellnigh forgotten in these 
days, and she had hesitated more than once as to whether she 
would not be committing an impropriety in thus encouraging 
a secret correspondence between the cousins. Her old habit, 
however, of following Elsie’s lead in all these affairs, deter- 
mined her at last to seize upon the moment, and deliver the 
letter without more ado, so she entered the room and took her 


o’er moor and fen. 183 

seat not far from Roy, opening a book, that she might not 
appear over-anxious to enter into conversation with him. 

For a few moments they remained silent, as Roy also held a 
book ; but perceiving, at length, that his companion had kept 
her eyes steadfastly fixed upon one paragraph for fully five 
minutes, he turned towards her with a smile, saying : 

“ Is that sentence so deep that you cannot master it, Miss 
Marston ? or are you, like myself, reading against your inclina- 
tion ? ’ * 

“ I fear I must plead guilty to the latter charge/’ replied 
Eleanor, closing her book and turning towards him. “ I have 
had a letter from your cousin, and my mind is preoccupied 
with its contents.” 

“ Indeed,” said Roy, with suddenly awakened interest, 
“ and what does she say that is so absorbing, if I may ask such 
an impertinent question ? ’ ’ 

“ Oh, it is not at all impertinent,” replied Eleanor. “ Elsie 
and I have no secrets. That is,” she continued, “none in which 
you are not concerned.” 

“ Am I to understand then that you have secrets concerning 
me?” said Roy, smiling. “I feel very much honored, I aih 
sure,” and he gave her a glance from his handsome eyes which 
made her shut her own up tighter than ever, feeling very hot 
and uncomfortable. 

She had thought that she was opening the matter with the 
utmost diplomacy, but the expression of his face completely 
disconcerted all her prearranged ideas, and she felt painfully 
conscious that she had given him to suppose that he was of 
personal interest to herself, which increased her embarrassment 
tenfold. 

“ I wish I had just handed the note to him, and then run 
away,” she thought, but it was too late to do that now, so she 


1 84 


o’er moor and fen. 


took courage at the thought that her disagreeable task would 
soon be over if she persevered, and renewed the conversation. 

“ We have never had any secrets concerning you until now,” 
she said, “ and what she says in this letter is scarcely worthy 
of so great a name, for she only requests me, in a postscript, to 
give you this note,” and she pushed it towards him as she 
spoke. 

Roy’s heart leaped within him at the sight of Elsie’s well- 
known handwriting, but his pride kept him from showing the 
smallest surprise at, or interest in, the note before a stranger, so 
he carelessly reached out his hand for it, and, after a moment’s 
examination, allowed it to drop once more upon the table, sim- 
ply saying : 

“ Some commission, I suppose. One of the hundred and 
fifty things that she, like most young ladies, should have done, 
but forgot to do until too late; ” and then, turning the con- 
versation into another channel, chatted carelessly On indiffer- 
ent subjects until the return of the family from the Stevensons. 

Eleanor was disappointed. She had expected that he would at 
least have expressed some pleasure at thus hearing from Elsie, 
so soon after her departure, and she began to fear that she had 
encouraged false hopes, and that he did not, after all, love her 
friend as he should, or as she had supposed he must ; but had 
she seen him snatch up the note a few moments after she left 
the room, and, first pressing it passionately to his lips, tear it 
open with tremulous hands, too eager almost to grasp its mean- 
ing, her mind must assuredly have been set at rest. 

Thus ran the note : 

I know that you will be very much surprised at the sight 
of my handwriting, and will, I fear, be tempted at first to 
throw this note aside unread, but I beg of you to conquer this 
impulse, and hear, me, if for the last time even, whilst I speak 


o’er moor and fen. 


185 

in extenuation of my conduct towards you just before I left 
home. 

I know that I led you to believe that I not only did not care 
for you, but loved another ; but I did not know then that such 
knowledge would give you pain, nor did I dream that you loved 
me , until my father told me so on our first night at sea. 

It seemed, as I heard him tell of you and all you thought of 
me, as though my heart would break with shame and contrition 
for the past, and I vowed that if I lived to reach the shore, 
although the ocean rolled between us, and I could not actually 
place my hand in yours, yet I would, as reparation for the 
wrong I had done you, write this frank confession, and tell you 
that you, and you alone, can ever fill my heart, which has been 
yours ever since I can remember. 

What more shall I, or rather can I, say? I admit, with tears 
of penitence, that you have been unjustly treated ; that I have 
been cold, unkind, cruel — what you will; but, oh, Roy, write 
me one little line, to say that you forgive me, and you will never 
have reason to complain of me again. 

Your unhappy cousin, Elsie. 

Roy read and re-read this epistle, scarcely daring to believe 
his happiness, and then, as footsteps sounded in the hall, he has- 
tily secreted his treasure in his bosom, and, springing lightly 
out of the window to avoid the persons approaching, he rushed 
away to indulge in solitude in ecstatic dreams of love and Elsie, 
and compose a suitable reply to this letter, which had brought 
such joy to his heart. 

He wandered about the grounds for an hour or more, lost in 
delightful reveries, and even when recalled to the realities of 
life by a summons to dinner, he went into the dining-room still 
dreaming, and acted throughout the meal more like an escaped 
lunatic than anything else — eating horse-radish with his pud- 
ding and sauce with his beef, sugaring his ham and salting his 
coffee. How he ever recovered from the effects of that dinner, 
has been a mystery to himself and his friends ever since. 

16* 


o’er moor and fen. 


i 86 

As soon as the meal was concluded he rushed to his room, 
and, seizing his pen, indited a long letter to his darling, rob- 
bing the dictionary of every caressing term to express himself, 
and bringing into the field so many adjectives that the nouns 
hung their heads with mortification. 

This production being considered satisfactory, after having 
been altered a score of times, he folded it and placed it in an 
envelope, and then it occurred to him, for the first time, that he 
was entirely ignorant of his cousin’s address, so he made his 
way down-stairs again in quest of Eleanor, from whom he hoped 
to gain the required information. 

He found her, as he had expected, in the drawing-room, but, 
alas ! she could not assist him. She told him that by that time 
Elsie must be at school, and until they heard from her again it 
would be useless to send his letter; but, she added, if he 
would trust her with it, she would send it as soon as possible. 

There seemed to be nothing better to do, so Roy placed the 
letter in her hand, commending it to her especial care, and 
moved away from her side again, lest he should attract the at- 
tention of the other occupants of the room, and give rise to 
conjecture on their part, as to his newly-awakened interest in 
Miss Marston. 

Poor Nellie ! she was in a sad predicament. The letter left 
in her hand must be conveyed to her pocket unobserved, under 
fire of four or six pairs of eyes, and she, utterly unused to such 
doings, felt that she was attracting general attention by her 
evident embarrassment, the very consciousness of which made 
her more nervous and flurried than before, so that at last she 
dropped it upon* the floor, and, suggesting that it had fallen 
from her work-basket, picked it up before them all, and boldly 
pocketed it. 

This device served to deceive all present but one, and she, 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


IS/ 

smiling to herself with triumph and delight, said softly, as it 
disappeared, “ I bide my time, but she shall know how I can 
hate,” and as Maude passed into her bedroom that night 
another figure entered with her, that of Annida de Luce. 

“Oh!” cried Maude, starting, “how you frightened me, 
Annida. I did not hear you come in. Is anything the matter? 
do you want me ? ’ ’ 

“I only want to speak to you, dear,” she replied; “I 
want to tell you of a discovery that I have made which causes 
me considerable uneasiness.” 

“A discovery!” repeated Maude, in surprise. “Shut the 
door at once, my dear, and tell me what it is,” and she made 
herself comfortable in an easy-chair, motioning to Annida to do 
the same. 

Annida complied with her request, and then sat down almost 
directly opposite her, but remained quite silent, looking re- 
flectively upon the floor, until Maude grew impatient. 

“Have you gone to sleep?” she said, laughing. “If not, 
pray let me hear your discovery without loss of time, for I am 
burning with curiosity, and expect to hear of a gold mine upon 
the premises at least.” 

Annida looked up at this and smiled, but instead of coming 
at once to the point, she said, to Maude’s infinite surprise : 

“Maude, who gave you that gold chain which you wear 
around your neck ? ’ ’ 

“ Why do you ask ? ” replied Maude, coloring slightly ; “ will 
the knowledge assist your discovery ? ’ ’ 

“ I don’t know until you tell me who it was,” replied Annida. 
“You need not speak, though,” she continued. “I can guess, 
I think, only if I am mistaken, you must tell me so.” 

“Very well,” said Maude. “ Who do you think it was? ” 

“Your cousin, Roy Weston,” replied Annida. “Am I not 
right? ” 


i88 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ I cannot say ‘no,’ ” replied Maude, blushing; “but how 
did you come to make such a good guess ? ’ ’ 

Cl Why every one can see that he is devoted to you,” replied 
Annida, “and that if left to himself he would have offered you 
his hand long ago, and that is the discovery which I have 
made. ’ ’ 

“Which?” said Maude, laughing, “that he would offer him- 
self to me if allowed ? ’ ’ 

“ No,” replied Annida, “ but the person who will not allow 
him to do so.” 

“ Indeed ? ” said Maude, gravely. “ Well, that is a discovery. 
Will you be so kind as to tell me who it is? ” 

“ You will not be shocked, or angry with me, if I tell you? ” 
inquired Annida. 

“Not in the least,” said Maude, but she did not know, nor 
even guess, that Annida would say — 

“ Elsie Von Decker.” 

“You cannot mean it,” she said, starting up in her excite- 
ment. “ Why, Annida, how can the child influence him now, 
when she is out of the country ? ’ ’ 

“By writing to him, my dear,” replied Annida. 

“But,” said Maude, incredulously, “she has not had time 
to write to him yet. We have only heard from her once, and 
no letter came to him by that mail.” 

“No?” said Annida, with a smile. “I think you are 
mistaken on that point, for I not only suspect, that he received 
one at the same time as yourself, but actually saw it, as it fell 
from Eleanor Marston’s, in which it was enclosed.” 

Maude’s mind instantly rushed back to the arrival of the 
letters, and she remembered quite distinctly Eleanor’s un- 
willingness to show Elsie’s, and her embarrassment when asked 
to do so. A humiliating sensation swept over her as she 


o’er moor and fen. 


189 


thought what a dupe she had been, and she hid her face in her 
hands to conceal her emotion, as she thought that perhaps 
Roy’s interest in herself had been only fraternal. 

“Now do not be distressed, my dear,” said Annida, “for 
there is really nothing to trouble you in the matter. Roy is 
deeply attached to you, and is as anxious to break with Elsie 
as you could be to have him do so, but she is such a mischievous 
little flirt that she cannot bear him to escape her toils, and has 
written to him, without doubt, to make trouble between you, 
just through her love of fun and excitement. There is no 
harm done by this first letter, not a bit ; but, my dear, she must 
not write another, for men are but men after all.” 

“But how can we prevent that?” asked Maude, excitedly. 
“ We cannot tell what she may send him through Nellie Mars- 
ton, I am sure.” 

“No, that is true,” replied Annida; “but I think I can 
suggest an effective plan of putting an end to the correspond- 
ence, and will carry it out with your assistance. You must 
remember that Elsie is a proud girl in her way, and a very little 
repulse from Roy will be enough to make her give him up at 
once, which I well know is what you both want, although you 
do not confide in me.” 

“ But it is useless to think of persuading Roy to repulse- 
Elsie’s advances,” said Maude, sharply; “even if it were a 
matter of personal indifference to him, he would feel constrained 
to be more than civil to her on papa’s account.” 

“I know that,” said Annida, “and therefore it is neces- 
sary that we should help him, and not suffer your happiness to 
be ruined by too great scrupulousness.” 

“ What can -we. do? ” asked Maude. 

“ We can prevent Elsie from ever receiving any answer to 
her clandestine letter,” replied Annida. 


190 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ How is that to be done? ” asked Maude, looking puzzled. 
“ Are we to tell him not to write to her? ” 

“ Not exactly,” said Annida, smiling, “for he would not 
listen to our advice in the first place ; and in the second, his 
letter is already written, and consigned to Eleanor Marston for 
safe keeping, until she discovers Elsie’s address. ” 

“Then the case is hopeless,” said Maude, sinking back in 
her chair. “Things must be allowed to take their own 
course.” 

“ And Elsie allowed to trifle with and destroy the man you 
love ! ” exclaimed Annida. “ Maude, you have no spirit ; I am 
ashamed of you.” 

“But how can I help it?” sobbed Maude. “You say that 
the letter is written, and Eleanor is to send it ; how then can I 
prevent it ? ” 

“ Eleanor must come to you for the address, must she not ? ” 
inquired Annida, with glittering eyes. 

“Yes, I suppose she must,” replied Maude, slowly. 

“Tell her, then, that you will direct it for her, and — bring 
the letter to me, I will see about posting it.” 

“ But that w'ould actually be stealing,” said Maude, in horror. 
“Oh, I could not do that, Annida.” 

“And is not Elsie trying to ‘ steal ’ your lover from you?” 
exclaimed Annida. “ You are talking absurd nonsense, Maude; 
but it is of no consequence to me, I am sure,” she, added, 
rising from her seat as she spoke. “ You may ruin your happi- 
ness if you wish ; it will harm no one but yourself and Roy. 
Good-night,” and she turned towards the door, but before she 
crossed the threshold Maude called her back again, and they 
renewed the conversation, which lasted far into the night. 


o’er moor and fen. 


i 9 r 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE SPIDER AT WORK. 

“ The woman that deliberates is lost.” 

D URING the week following Maude suffered much from 
an internal struggle *twixt right and wrong. Although 
Annida had placed the subject before her in its best light, and 
had urged upon her the necessity of checking Roy’s intercourse 
with Elsie, she could not but shrink at the suggestion of inter- 
cepting his letter, and Annida found it impossible to obtain 
a promise from her to that effect ; but as the days passed, the 
struggle became less violent, and at length she compromised 
matters with herself, by mentally determining to allow the 
trouble to settle itself, and to be guided entirely by the mood of 
the moment when the next letter from Paris should arrive. 

It came by the next steamer, and with it, as before, one for 
Eleanor ; but Maude, who received them both, could not make 
up her mind to deliver the latter without mature consideration, 
so she put them both in her pocket, and withdrew to her own 
room to think the matter over. 

For a long time she sat lost in thought, with the letter lying 
on her lap. Roy loved her — she was sure he did — and would 
one day thank her for what she was about to do; but suppose 
he were to discover that she had deceived him, and, acting the 
spy upon his actions, had broken up his correspondence with 
his cousin, how then ? Thus she argued the case, first on one 
side and then on the other, but never coming any nearer a 
decision, until a gentle tap at the door aroused her from her 


192 . o’er moor and fen. 

reverie, when she sprang from her seat, dropping the letter 
hastily into her writing-desk, which lay open upon the table, 
and then closing the desk, she sat down once more and opened 
her sister’s letter to herself, just as a second rap came upon the 
door. 

“ Come in,” she said, and at once Eleanor Marston entered, 
followed closely by Annida. 

“We heard you had letters from abroad,” said the latter, 
fixing her eyes full upon Maude, “and have come to hear the 
news, and learn the last Paris fashions.” 

“I cannot tell you anything yet,” she replied; “you must 
have patience until I read my letter. I have only just begun 
it,” and she ran her eyes hastily over the page before her. 
“ There is nothing particularly interesting to tell you,” she con- 
tinued. “ Elsie says that she has not yet been able to see much 
of Paris, for papa’s time was so limited, and there was so much 
to be arranged in regard to placing her at Madame Geradin’s 
Academy. She is established there now, however, and already 
feels quite at her ease, and papa has left Paris on his way home. 
She has made the acquaintance of a charming girl, whose name 
is Julie St. Evremond, a day-scholar only, and she encloses her 
address that all letters, which we do not wish opened and read 
by the school authorities (as is the general rule), may be sent 
through her. She says, also, that Julie has an uncle, Col. St. 
Evremond, with whom she lives, and, as he frequently takes her 
out sight-seeing on half holidays, she has promised to call for 
Elsie on such occasions, that she may see something of the outer 
world. 

“The St. Evremonds are of the old rtgime ,” she says, “and 
scorn everything that is new, carrying their prejudices so far as 
to refuse to live in any of the magnificent streets which the 
present Emperor has opened, and clinging to the Faubourg St. 


o’er moor and fen. 


193 


Germain as tenaciously as the ivy does to a mouldering wall. 
That is about the substance of her letter, and now I must 
redirect my last letter to this new address,” she added, rising 
from her seat. “ I am glad I did not send it this morning, for 
I have no idea of Madame’s examining my correspondence.” 

Eleanor’s heart beat rapidly. Maude had told her everything 
but what she most wished to know, namely, Elsie’s address, 
and, although it would be most natural for her to ask for this, 
her conscience made a coward of her, and she remained stand- 
ing silently beside the table, watching Maude as her busy 
fingers changed the covering of her letter. 

Just as she was about resigning all hope of getting what she 
was waiting for, Maude turned towards her, saying, sweetly : 

“ Have you not a letter, Nellie? Run, fetch it, if you have, 
and I will address it for you with my own.” 

This was too good a chance to be lost, and uttering a few 
words of thanks, Eleanor rushed away to her room for Roy’s 
letter, with which she returned in a few moments, and handed 
it to Maude. 

“Well done,” Annida had whispered to her companion 
during Eleanor’s temporary absence, and Maude had answered 
quickly, “You must take it, I cannot.” So when Maude had 
addressed it, and put on the requisite stamps, Annida quietly 
took up the letters, saying : 

“ I am going out to drive with Mr. Strathmore almost im- 
mediately, and as we shall pass the post-office, I will leave these 
for you, girls, and then you will be sure that they have gone.” 

Eleanor was taken by surprise, and could think of no objec- 
tion to this suggestion, although she felt sure that R‘oy ex- 
pected his letter back again, and would rather have mailed it 
himself; but whilst she was thinking the matter over,, Annida 
hurriedly left the room, and was soon to be heard driving along 
17 N 


i 9 4 


o’er moor and fen. 


the hard gravel road towards the post-office, thereby settling 
the question forever, and so Eleanor walked thoughtfully away, 
wondering what Roy would say to her. 

Over the even-made roads rolled the drag, and the mettle- 
some horses demanded so much attention when they first started, 
that Leonard had but little to spare for his fiancee , whilst she, 
on her part, had so much to engross her mind that she scarcely 
noticed his unwonted silence. 

She had gained her end — the means of revenge upon Elsie 
lay within her grasp, and for the time a sense of triumph over- 
powered every other feeling. She forgot the loss of Arthur’s 
love, her own misery from it, and even that .she was soon to be 
bound for life to the man beside her, for whom she felt more 
and more contempt each succeeding day, and remembered only 
that Elsie had dared to thwart her plans, and that Elsie would 
now suffer for it. 

The post-office was reached, and Maude’s letter dropped in 
the box, but Roy’s remained in her pocket, where she had put 
it soon after she got into the drag ; and as they drove on again, 
she placed her hand upon it to be certain that it was perfectly 
secure. 

The horses had by this time become quiet, and as they 
trotted leisurely along the green lanes, Leonard found time to 
enjoy his companion’s society, and to introduce a subject which 
had been for some time agitating him. 

“ Annida,” he said, “ do you know where I am taking you? ” 

“ No,” she replied ; “ but I do not feel at all alarmed at my 
ignorance. As I have promised to marry you, and no one 
raises any objection, I do not think it likely that you will elope 
with me this afternoon.” 

“I had not thought of it,” said Leonard, smiling, “but it 
is a good idea, and if you do not soon put me out of suspense 


o’er moor and fen. 


195 

and fix some definite period for our marriage, I shall be tempt- 
ed to carry you off some fine day, and marry you whether you 
will or not.” 

“Ah, now I do feel frightened,” said Annida. “Tell me 
at once, sir, where we are going, or I shall spring over the side 
of the drag. Better destruction than deception.” 

“ Wait a moment, and I will help you down,” replied Leon- 
ard, “ for we are almost at the gate of Strathmore Park.” 

“Indeed! ” said Annida, in surprise; “and why did you 
bring me here ? ” 

“ Because I wanted you to look carefully over the house and 
grounds, and see what alterations you would like to have made, 
prior to taking up your abode here. You have never been to 
Strathmore since we were engaged, and it is time you paid it 
a visit.” 

“ Oh, there is no hurry about that,” said Annida ; “we shall 
have time and to spare before we are married.” 

“And why should we?” said Leonard, quickly. “What 
good reason can you give me for delaying our marriage? We 
are neither of us very young, I have plenty of money, and you 
know your relations will not grieve long after you.” 

“That is all true,” said Annida, gravely; “ but — let us say 
no more about it just at present ; I will think the subject over 
and try and get used to it.” 

Leonard complied with her request, and they drove on silently 
for some little time, until they drew up before the Park entrance, 
when they descended from the drag, and, leaving the horses 
with the coachman, proceeded to walk up the magnificent 
avenue leading to the house. Leonard made no attempt to 
renew the subject just then, but contented himself with point- 
ing out the many advantages of his estate, judging rightly that 
Annida would be more influenced by these than any other per- 


196 o’er moor and fen. 

suasions he could make use of, and he soon saw the wisdom of 
his course, as she began first to listen to him, and then to offer 
her opinion on various suggested improvements, imperceptibly 
associating the surroundings with herself. 

From the grounds they proceeded to the house, and this also 
underwent a strict inspection. From room to room they 
wandered, now and then speaking, to suggest some slight altera- 
tion, but oftener in total silence. At last they entered a 
spacious bed-chamber on the second floor, furnished hand- 
somely, and commanding a fine view of the bay from its 
heavily-draped windows. Next to this, and opening into it, 
was a little octagon-shaped room, furnished entirely with blue 
satin and white lace, the walls and windows being draped with 
the same. 

An exclamation of delight escaped Annida as she entered this 
fairy-like room, and she paused on the threshold between the 
two, gazing upon them alternately with wonder and surprise. 

“ I do not remember these rooms at all,” she said, “and 
yet I thought I knew the house well. How is it that these 
escaped my attention when I was last here ? * * 

“You did not see them for one very good reason,” replied 
Leonard, smiling, “ which is that they did not then exist as 
they now are. They have only just been completed,” he 
added, and then coming a step nearer he placed his arm around 
her, saying : 

“I had them furnished for my bride, Annida; I have been 
hard at work ever since you promised to be mine. Everything 
is ready for you, darling ; will you still keep me waiting without 
cause ? ’ ’ 

Annida felt herself entrapped. The thought that she might 
lose all this elegance by procrastination was appalling, and then 
why should she put off the evil day ? it must come before she 


o’er moor and fen. 


197 


could enjoy the possession of the beauty which surrounded her, 
and the sooner it was over, the sooner would she enter upon 
her dignity and state. 

“My uncle is still absent,” she murmured, “and I have 
said nothing about a speedy marriage to my mother.” 

“But your uncle will be home shortly,” replied Leonard; 
“ and as for your mother, you can write to her to-night. I do not 
wish you to be married to-morrow, only to give me a promise 
that as soon as Mr. Yon Decker returns you will allow me to 
make my preparations, and bring you here once more, as my 
wife, as soon afterward as possible. What do you say, darling ? 
not ‘no,’ surely.” 

And Annida did not say “no,” but suffered herself to be 
prevailed upon to give the desired promise, and then they 
drove home, amicably discussing their future plans. 

But on the terrace stood one whom Annida would gladly 
have avoided, namely, Arthur Leighton ; Bob Stevenson also 
was there, having driven him over to Beechcroft, that he might 
bid Jack good-bye before he returned to the city. 

Arthur came forward, as they drew up at the door, and 
assisted Annida to alight, after which they all went into the 
house together, joining the rest of the household, who were 
rejoicing over Jack’s return to health and activity. 

“ How are you?” said Bob, as she gave her hand to him. 
“ Do you feel quite strong again, and are your relations taking 
good care of you ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, I’m well enough,” replied Jack, “but there are no 
nurses here who can compare with you, and I’m pining for 
some boiled mutton.” 

“ Come over and dine with me, then,” said Bob, “and I ’ll 
give you the 1 lion’s share.’ ” 

17* 


198 


o’er moor and fen. 


“What is the matter with my Lord Hamlet?” asked Jack, 
pointing towards Arthur, whose melancholy countenance sud- 
denly attracted his attention. “ Is it a case of a ‘ father’s 
ghost,’ or a ‘ fair Ophelia ’ ? ” 

“ I am as ignorant as yourself,” replied Bob, “ but he must 
be either in love or in debt, for he neither eats nor sleeps any 
more, ‘ making night hideous ’ by his incessant march over my 
head, until I am charmed to think that he is going to betake 
himself elsewhere, and leave me to peaceful repose. Why he 
has stayed with us so long I cannot imagine, but, thank heaven, 
he goes to-morrow.” 

“Maude received a letter from her sister to-day,” said 
Eleanor in a low voice to Roy, who was standing beside her. 

“Indeed?” he said, eagerly. “And did she send her ad- 
dress?” 

“Yes,” replied Eleanor, “and your letter is addressed and 
mailed. I passed it off as my own,” she continued, hastily, 
“and I hope you will not be vexed with me. Indeed, I could 
not otherwise avoid detection.” 

“Vexed,” repeated Roy; “ certainly not; on the contrary, I 
am very much obliged to you.” 

“Miss De Luce,” said Arthur, suddenly pausing before her, 
“ I have not yet congratulated you on your engagement. Allow 
me to do so now, and to wish you all possible happiness in your 
future life.” 

“You are very kind,” said Annida, whilst her color came 
and went with conflicting emotion, “and I thank you very 
much for your good wishes. ’ ’ 

She would fain have said something more, to prove herself 
as calm and collected as the man before her, but the words 
died upon her lips, and all her old regrets returned as she met 
the dark eyes of her sometime lover fixed upon her no longer 


o’er moor and fen. 


199 


in love and tenderness as of yore, but with fierce indig- 
nation and undying resentment. “Lost, forever lost,” she 
murmured to herself, as he turned from her, “ but I shall be 
avenged.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


A STEVENSON TO THE RESCUE. 


“ When all the blandishments of life are gone, 
The coward sneaks to death, the brave live on.” 



RTHUR LEIGHTON returned to the city a depressed 


l \ and broken-hearted man. Back to his work he went with 
the determination to forget his troubles in the vortex of an 
active and ambitious life, as so many men had done before him, 
and, seating himself in his little third-story back room, in a 
very inferior boarding-house, he put his feet upon the table, 
tilted his chair, and tried to imagine, as he lighted his cigar, 
that he was a picture of bachelor comfort, which, in outward 
seeming, perhaps he was. 

He sorted the papers and letters which had accumulated during 
his absence — he drew forth from his desk pen, ink, and paper, 
wherewith to jot down any brilliant thought which might occur 
to him during their perusal ; but although he read and re-read 
them a dozen times, the words contained no meaning for him, 
and his heart kept repeating the unhappy story of his dis- 
appointed hopes, until, half mad with misery, he started to his 
feet once more, and throwing his correspondence en masse into 
an open drawer abruptly left the room, feeling keenly that in 


200 


o’er moor and fen. 


his present state of mind he was utterly unfit to give it his 
attention. 

Had his occupation been of an active nature — one that led 
him among men, and drew him out of himself — the plan for 
forgetfulness which he had laid out might have been successful, 
but, alas ! poor Arthur was an author, a contributor to magazines 
and weekly papers, and his mind, so far from raising him above 
his troubles, sank utterly beneath them, so that his sedentary 
life became unbearable, and, gloomy and morose, he gave him- 
self up wholly to brooding over his wrongs, thus rendering 
himself every day more incapable of any profitable work. 

He knew Annida was unworthy of the love he had lavished 
on her — he felt, indeed, that he had loved a creature as unreal 
as those of his own creation — yet he could not rouse himself 
from his inertia, nor shake off the dull despair which had seized 
upon him. One week passed away, and then another. He 
learned incidentally that Mr. Von Decker had returned, and 
then, more miserable than ever, awaited feverishly the intelli- 
gence of Annida’ s wedding, which he felt assured would now no 
longer be postponed. 

Meanwhile this harassing life had made great havoc in his 
health, whilst the nonfulfilment of his “press” duties caused a 
depletion of his finances, which threatened to seriously incon- 
venience him; but he viewed the decline of strength and fortune 
with equal indifference, nor made an effort to save himself, by 
making up for lost time in the earnestness and absorption of 
work. He could do nothing until Annida was married, thus 
he argued, and yet when, one morning as he sorted his letters, 
he came upon a beautiful snow-white envelope, bearing the Von 
Decker crest, he leaned back in his chair for a moment or two 
before daring to open it, and felt that more than her marriage 
was necessary to put his heart at rest with itself. Within was a 


o’er moor and fen. 


201 


printed card of invitation to the wedding, which would take 
place that day week. 

Of course this invitation had been sent by Maude, as to a 
friend of the family, without a suspicion of the existing circum- 
stances; but Arthur, who was in no mood to reason calmly 
about anything, at once looked upon it as a new and additional 
insult from the woman who had deceived him, and set himself 
to think of some method of revenge — some way of moving her 
stony heart to grief. 

“She invites me to her wedding!” he exclaimed. “She 
thinks I will not come — that I cannot bear to see her given to 
another. Well — perhaps she is right — who knows? But I 
shall go, nevertheless, and add to the bridal entertainment a 
‘show’ of my own.” Afid with a mirthless laugh he went 
about packing boxes of books, sorting odd papers, and setting 
his affairs to rights with a scrupulous care unusual in a man who 
was going away but for a day, and to attend a wedding. 

“There,” he said, as he closed his valise on the appointed 
day, and looked approvingly around the small room, which pre- 
sented an unusually neat appearance; “everything is in order, 
and my friends will have no trouble;” and then, taking his 
valise in his hand, he crossed for the last time the threshold of 
all that he had to call a home. 

And Annida., how did she bear the advent of her wedding 
morn ? Alas ! it had dawned upon as miserable a woman as 
could well be found. No sleep had visited her eyes the night 
before, and, strange to say, she had not courted it, nor sought 
to calm her nervous agitation by recourse to her favorite seda- 
tive. No, through the livelong night she had kept her lonely 
vigil, that she might think and dream of Arthur, perhaps for 
the last time, unreservedly. She recalled all his loving words 
and tender actions, all that he had been to her, and all that he 


202 


0 ER MOOR AND FEN. 


had done for her, since she had first known him, and the long- 
ing of her heart after him knew no bounds. 

She drove the remembrance of Leonard from her with scorn. 
“Not yet,” she murmured, as his unwelcome shadow intruded 
on her thoughts; “ this one night shall be Arthur’s, and to-mor- 
row — to-morrow will be time enough to face the future,” but 
even as she spoke the morrow dawned — Leonard’s time had 
come, and with the darkness fled her last hope of happiness. 

The morning light flooded the room, the sun streamed in 
upon her, and then, indeed, she rose from her chair, and 
approaching the toilet-table, took therefrom one of her pow- 
ders, saying, as she prepared to swallow it, “I must be a little 
stupefied, or I shall never accomplish that which I have to do,” 
and when the maid tapped at the door with the coffee, it was 
opened to her by a gracious, smiling woman, the perfect picture 
of a happy bride. 

Annida took her seat before the mirror and placidly submitted 
her luxuriant tresses to the hands of the artiste , to be curled, 
braided, and puffed according to custom, striving meanwhile to 
keep her feelings in subjection by thinking only of her coming 
grandeur. Maude and Eleanor soon joined her, offering their 
sincere congratulations on the beautiful weather which crowned 
her wedding day, and what, with dressing, discussing the all- 
important occasion, their toilets, and forming bright schemes 
for the future, the morning passed away more cheerfully than 
Annida had expected ; and when the appointed hour came, she 
found herself perfectly calm and self-possessed, quite ready to 
descend to the parlor, where a large assemblage of friends were 
eagerly awaiting her appearance. 

Among the guests was Arthur, but looking so unlike himself 
as to attract general attention. “He has been ill,” said some; 
“He has been drinking!” exclaimed others, whilst the un- 


o’er moor and fen. 


203 


conscious object of remark passed idly from one to another, 
exchanging commonplaces with all, only bent on one thing, 
namely, proving to those around him how entirely he was at 
his ease, and how little interest he took in the coming 
ceremony. 

Silence suddenly ensued among the gay throng, for the fold- 
ing doors were slowly opened, and under the arch of evergreens 
came the bride, in queenly majesty, robed in white satin and 
guipure lace, and crowned with orange blossoms, and — her 
own glowing, dazzling beauty ; whilst around her neck hung a 
costly string of pearls, from which a cross of diamonds depended. 
She advanced steadily, leaning on her uncle’s arm, toward the 
place assigned for the ‘ceremony, and a proud, triumphant feel- 
ing possessed her, as she heard the whispered admiration of the 
guests, and for the first time tasted that cup of adulation for 
which she had so often sighed. But, of a sudden, her joy was 
changed to mourning, and the haughty fire died out of her 
eyes. Arthur, determined to let her know that there was 
present at least t)ne living, though silent witness of her perjury, 
had placed himself conspicuously in her path, and, as she moved 
along with stately tread, her eye fell upon him as he stood 
gazing at her, with sunken, bloodshot eyes, and a face as pallid 
as a corpse. 

A smothered cry escaped her, as she stopped short in her 
course, trembling with emotion, and her bouquet, falling from 
her nerveless hand, rolled at his feet. She seemad to herself 
to have suddenly fallen from her greatness, and to be, now, 
something less even than the women around her. Her uncle 
endeavored to urge her on, but she appeared to be unable to 
move ; all around eagerly interrogated her as to the cause of her 
agitation, but she could not or would not speak a word, stand- 
ing there the cynosure of all eyes, and a picture of dismay, 


204 


o’er moor and fen. 


until Arthur, far more collected than herself, stooping, raised 
the flowers and restored them to her, saying, in a voice in- 
audible to all save herself : 

“ Pass on ! ” 

At his words, uttered commandingly, she seemed to awake 
from a spell, and to realize her situation, for she moved quickly 
on, and without further delay, but in hurried and uncertain 
tones, she spoke the fatal words which parted her forever from 
the man she loved^ 

The ceremony over, and Mr. and Mrs. Strathmore having re- 
ceived the congratulations and good wishes of their friends, 
the festivities of the day began, and no one was gayer or more 
at ease, apparently, than the bride, whilst the groom, in a 
seventh heaven of delight, was overflowing with kindness and 
attention to all. 

Arthur tried to rival Annida in self-command and indiffer- 
ence, but as the day wore on he became weary of the heartless 
game, and grew more and more moody and silent, drinking 
heavily to hide his increasing melancholy, but turning from 
the feast with loathing. More than one anxious glance was 
directed at him during the collation — in fact, almost every one 
but Annida noticed his strange behavior, but she dared not 
trust herself to give a single look that way, lest she should for- 
get her role and betray her feelings. 

Roberta Stevenson was standing not far from her, eating an 
ice with extreme satisfaction, and amusing herself at the same 
time, with a very young gentleman, whose breath she had taken 
away several times by calling him “My dear child,” when a 
voice suddenly whispered in her ear : 

“ I smell a rat ! ” 

“Good gracious! ” exclaimed Bob, and starting with alarm 
at these unexpected and ominous words, she emptied the con- 


o’er moor and fen. 205 

tents of her plate on her unfortunate companion, who with- 
drew, in indignation, at such uncivil conduct. Looking over 
her shoulder to see who had caused all this confusion, Bob 
discovered Jack Yon Decker, who was laughing heartily at the 
sudden defection of the very young gentleman. 

“ You should not give your admirers such a cold reception, 
Miss Stevenson,” he said with mock gravity; “ that poor baby 
will have the croup to-night, I am sure.” 

“Oh, you horrid boy!” exclaimed Bofc. “Why did you 
shriek in my ear, and discompose my nerves in such an un- 
seemly manner? Didn’t you know I was on my good be- 
havior, and trying to appear genteel ? ” 

“I never guessed it for a moment,” replied Jack, laughing 
heartily, “you hid your gentility so well.” 

“For shame!” said Bob; “I was getting into a beautiful 
flirtation, when you came and screamed ‘ Rats ! ’ in my ear. 
What interest have I in rats, I should like to know? I’m 
neither a terrier nor a piece of burnt cheese.” 

“Don’t be flippant, child,” said Jack, “but give me your 
attention whilst I ‘ a tale unfold.’ Just cast your eye upon my 
Lord Hamlet first, though, and tell me whether he is drunk or 
mad. Did you ever see such midnight darkness enthroned upon 
a kingly brow ? ’ ’ 

Bob looked at Arthur for a moment, but her heart was too 
light to be troubled by his gloomy bearing, and she only 
answered by humming in a low voice : 

“ There was a young man all dressed in silk, 

Who lived upon lemons and buttermilk ; 

And thinking this world was a sour old place, 

He carried its acid all over his face,” 


and then she laughed merrily. 
18 


20 6 


o’er moor and fen. 


“You won’t feel inclined to laugh much longer, my lady,” 
said Jack, “ for if I am not mistaken that fellow will soon lose 
his head, knock Strathmore down, or kill somebody.” 

“I do not think he looks dangerous,” replied Bob, “and 
why should you suppose he would attack Mr. Strathmore ; they 
have always been good friends, have they not ? ’ ’ 

“Apparently they have,” replied Jack, “but you see I am a 
very clever boy, and by putting two and two together, I have 
discovered — ” 

“That they make four?” said Bob, interrogatively; “why I 
know that myself.” 

“ But you don’t know which four they made in this case,” 
replied Jack, “ and that is what I wish to explain. The three 
given quantities,” he continued, lowering his voice, “are Mr. 
and Mrs. Strathmore and my Lord Hamlet, whom I have every 
reason to believe considers himself injured by to-day’s cere- 
mony, and the unknown quantity is the one who is going to 
watch the third given quantity, and prevent him from dividing 
the first given quantity into decimals. There, now you have 
the proposition before you as well as I can state it, with so 
large an audience.” 

“ I understand you very well,” said Bob, thoughtfully. “ It 
is a case of jealousy. Leave him to me,” she continued, after 
a moment’s reflection, “and I will give you timely warning in 
case of danger.” 

“All right,” replied Jack. “I’d rather trust you than 
many men that I know ; but you must be very careful not to 
let him know that you are watching him, for that will only ex- 
pedite the mischief. It is an uncomfortable piece of business,” 
he continued, musingly, “and, as ‘master of ceremonies,’ I 
cannot possibly keep my eye on him, so good luck to you, my 
boy, and good-bye,” saying which he shot off to the other 


o’er moor and fen. 207 

side of the room as abruptly as he had come, whilst Bob con- 
trived to place herself a little nearer to her charge. 

She found no difficulty in keeping him in sight whilst he 
remained in the dining-room, but when he left there, although 
she immediately followed, he managed to elude her, and when 
she reached the parlor, was nowhere to be seen, either in that 
room or the hall, through which she had just passed. His 
disappearance was so mysterious, that Bob determined to ac- 
quaint Jack at once of the fact, but, unfortunately, he was also 
not to be found, and she was standing at the foot of the stair- 
case, wondering what she should do, when Eleanor Marston 
stole softly up to her and whispered : 

“ Come with me to the end of the hall for a moment.” 

Bob placed her arm in that of her friend, and suffered her- 
self to be led away unquestioningly, for a glance at Nellie’s 
face convinced her that something unusual had occurred. 

“Were you looking for any one? ” asked Nellie. 

“Yes, for Arthur Leighton,” replied Bob. “ Have you seen 
him anywhere ? ’ ’ 

“ No ! Yes ! I know where he is,” said Nellie, in great agita- 
tion. “ What did you want him for? ” 

Bob briefly stated what had passed between Jack and herself 
relating to Arthur, and when she mentioned their suspicion 
that he had himself aspired to Leonard’s position, Nellie 
clasped her hands, exclaiming, in a tone of distress : 

“ Oh, let us find Jack at once, Bob, or a terrible misfortune 
may befall that poor young man. He has gone out to the 
garden-house without hat or cloak, with a pistol in his hand, 
gesticulating and talking to himself like one who is out of his 
head.” 

“How long since? ” asked Bob, anxiously. 

“About fifteen minutes ago,” replied Nellie; “I saw him 
from a window in the upper hall.” 


208 


o’er moor and fen. 


We cannot wait to find Jack, then,” said Bob, quickening 
her speed and dragging her friend along with her. “We must 
go ourselves, Nellie ; so wrap that shawl around you, and I will 
borrow this jacket ; not being mad, we will otherwise find it 
rather cool in the garden.” 

As she spoke Bob took the articles from the rack, and hastily 
putting them on, the two girls left the house, and ran down the 
path leading to the garden. 

“Softly,” said Bob, as they neared the garden-house; “the 
door is open, Nellie, and we must not be seen,” so they stole 
noiselessly around to the rear, and peeping cautiously through 
the open window, beheld a sight which corroborated their 
worst fears. 

At the small table within sat Arthur, with his head upon his 
hand, gazing earnestly at a small miniature which lay open 
before him, and which the girls had no difficulty in recogniz- 
ing as Annida’s ; a note, written in pencil, but not folded, lay 
beside him, and in his disengaged hand he held a pistol ready 
cocked. 

Eleanor could scarcely restrain herself from screaming, so 
alarmed was she at the threatened catastrophe, but Bob covered 
her mouth with her hand, whispering in her ear at the same 
time : 

“Be silent; if you make a sound, everything is lost. His 
back is turned to the door — watch here alone for a moment — 
I am going in to him,” and the brave, resolute girl crept noise- 
lessly back to the front of the house and in through the open 
door. 

Arthur heard nothing, nor dreamed that he was watched, 
and Bob succeeded in placing herself so near him that she 
could without trouble read the note upon the table. Thus it 


ran : 


o’er moor and fen. 


209 


“ Farewell, Annida. Fortune has smiled on you, and given 
you all that you desired. Around your neck hangs your chain 
of servitude — the pearls and diamonds with which your 
husband bought your love admit no other term. Kind friends 
(who have never known you until to-day) have lavished gifts 
upon you, and shall not I, your childhood’s friend, offer you 
some token of regard? Alas, there is but one thing left me 
now to give ; but, Annida, it is yours. Life alone is mine, and 
now I give it to you as a wedding gift. Adieu.” 

A chill crept through Bob’s frame as she read these signifi- 
cant words, but she never stirred from her position, knowing 
well that it was too late now to retreat. She knew her danger, 
for were Arthur to turn suddenly and find her there, what could 
prevent him, in his half-insane condition, from shooting her? 
Yet there was no time to seek other assistance, so she prepared 
herself for the worst, and stood her ground, calm and resolute, 
an inflexible purpose imprinted on her bright young face — like 
a soldier under arms, awaiting the signal to fly to the rescue of 
a comrade. 

- “Lost ! lost ! ” moaned Arthur; “ my whole life blasted by 
that false face — my curse rest on you forever and forever! ” 
he shouted, and dashing the picture to the ground, he raised the 
pistol to his head and fired. His aim was true, yet the bullet 
passed harmlessly over his head, for a quick stroke from behind 
dashed the muzzle of the pistol up, whilst a clear girlish voice 
rang out upon the air, saying : 

“ Coward ! ” 

18* 


O 


210 


o’er moor and fen. 


CHAPTER X. 


A TRIAL OF NERVE. 


“ We live in deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breaths ; 
In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 

We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives 
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.” 


RTHUR started furiously to his feet. He had been 



/j l followed from the house, his long-cherished project de- 
feated, the worthless life he had thought to have thrown away 
was still his, and the consciousness that there were more days 
of suffering in store for him, goaded him to madness. 

“ Who is it that plays the spy on me, and dares to call me 
coward?” he cried, turning quickly to grapple with the foe; 
but as his angry glance fell upon the slight girlish figure, draped 
in white muslin, unarmed, save with a brave and dauntless spirit, 
his upraised arm dropped powerless at his side, and he staggered 
back against the wall, drooping his head upon his bosom as 
though he would fain hide from the clear, penetrating gaze now 
bent upon him. 

“ It was I who called you ‘ coward,’ ” she said, in a clear, 
distinct voice, “and I spoke but the truth. What better name 
does a man deserve who will not face his fate, but seeks, like a 
craven, to slink out of life? For shame, Arthur Leighton; 
does a soldier leave his post at the firing of the first gun ? ” 

“No,” he slowly said, “but often he falls to the ground 
overwhelmed by the severity of his wounds.” 

“ Aye, I grant you that,” said Bob ; “ but when he is down, 
he does not seek to take his own life, but rather bears his agony 


o’er moor and fen. 


21 1 


ill quiet patience, until some comrade helps him to rise, or 
death itself seeks him.” 

“ Hold your peace,” exclaimed Arthur, starting upright once 
more; “by what right do you interfere in my affairs, and then 
preach to me of patience ? ” 

“I interfered to save you from a shameful deed,” replied 
Bob, “ and I 1 preach * that I may arouse you to a sense of your 
misconduct.” 

“ And who was I wronging when I strove to rid myself of 
the intolerable burden of living?” cried Arthur, staggering to 
a rustic bench which stood beside the table, and burying his 
head in his hands. “Is not my life my own? and if I choose 
annihilation to dragging on a miserable existence for threescore 
years and ten, why should I be forced to live ? ’ ’ 

He paused for a reply, but poor Bob stood silent, with a 
puzzled look on her round, rosy face. Since her mother’s 
death, the little religious instruction that she had ever received 
had entirely faded from her mind, and none of her father’s 
scientific reasonings on the course of nature seemed to her to 
afford a sufficient cause for forcing a man to live who had 
become weary of his life. Why had she saved Arthur’s? 
because she had thought suicide a sin, of course, but when 
called upon to explain why it was a sin, she felt herself 
unequal to the task, and stood silent and troubled before her 
questioner. 

“Leave me,” continued Arthur, in a tone of misery. “I 
shall be better when alone. You have saved my miserable life 
this time, and may the consciousness of it bring you peace ; for 
myself, I cannot but hate you for what you have done,” and he 
moaned bitterly, whilst his head sunk lower still, until it rested 
on the table. 

“Ah! do not say that,” said Bob, filled with compassion at 


212 


o’er MOOR AND FEN. 


the sight of his suffering. “Take courage; rise above your 
troubles, and you may live to thank me yet. ’ ’ 

“Never!” exclaimed Arthur, raising his head once more, 
and looking fiercely at her. “You have robbed me of my only 
hope, that of total oblivion. It is only for a time, however,” 
he muttered; “I will have my way despite fate,” and he re- 
sumed his former position, apparently determined to ignore her 
presence. 

Bob hesitated for a moment as to what it would be best for 
her to do. Arthur was in no mood to listen to reason, that was 
plainly to be seen ; indeed, he seemed to be scarcely conscious 
of what he said and did — his cheeks were flushed and his eyes 
shone feverishly, whilst he continued to moan, and at intervals 
to utter disconnected words. She felt so useless, and yet it 
seemed impossible to leave him a prey to his unhappiness, lest, 
during her absence, he should again attempt to take his life. 
Eleanor now appeared in the doorway, motioning her to come 
away, but she went no further than the little spring beside the 
door, from whence she drew a cup of cold water, and then re- 
turned, bidding her friend go back to the house and explain to 
Jack (but to Jack only) the reason of her prolonged absence. 

Once again within the garden-house she hesitated no longer, 
but boldly approached her charge, and, without a word, folded 
up her handkerchief, and, after saturating it in the cold water, 
laid it gently on his burning forehead. The cool application 
was most grateful, and he raised his eyes to her sympathizing 
face, saying : 

“That was well done; you have allayed the flames. I shall 
die easily now,” and then, after a moment’s pause, he con- 
tinued : “ It is strange how long it takes to die. I aimed the 

shot well — the ball should have pierced my brain — but I 
think, and see, and feel still, as though even death refused to 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


213 


comfort me. My God ! I hope I am not dead ! ” he exclaimed, 
as a sudden fear took possession of him. “ Have I sent my 
soul to hell, and must I bear this torture through eternity?” 
and he attempted to rise in his agony, but his physical suffer- 
ings for the moment conquered, and he fell back senseless on 
his seat. 

Once more Bob had recourse to the water, and this time she 
used it lavishly, drenching his hair and moistening his parched 
lips, whilst she watched anxiously for returning life. He 
opened his eyes at last, and looked at her. “Child,” he said, 
“what are you doing here? Have you betrayed your love? 
This is the purgatory of condemned souls. I am awaiting 
Annida De Luce. She escaped me in life, but in death she 
must be mine. Hell is not such a bad place after all,” he 
added, “when one can see one’s enemies suffer,” and he 
laughed discordantly. 

Bob shuddered, and cast a longing glance through the open 
door, to see if, perchance, Jack were not coming to her rescue; 
but no one was in sight, and the sound of distant music told 
that the revelry within the house was still at its height. She 
turned her eyes once more upon her charge, whose increasing 
wildness filled her every moment with greater dread. What if 
he should become violent ? How could her cry for help be 
heard above the loud rejoicings in yonder house? and what 
would her puny strength avail against a madman’s? True, 
there was still time for flight, but her loyal heart revolted at 
the thought of deserting her post before Jack arrived. 

Arthur grew more and more restless. “Go, child, go,” 
he said, at length, with some impatience; “why should you 
linger here? Life must still be beautiful to you — leave this 
place, therefore, whilst you may ; when the gates of hope once 
close, ,they remain forever shut — forever ! ’ ’ 


214 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ I have remained too long already,” said Bob, thinking it 
best to humor his conceit; “the gates are closed now, and I 
must stay with you ; so close your eyes and take some rest, 
whilst I watch beside you.” 

“Rest!” exclaimed Arthur, starting to his feet; “ there is 
no rest for me. I will watch with you — watch for my bonnie 
bride, my beautiful Annida. She must come, you know; she 
has promised, and legions of fiends could not make her break 
her word. Why do you look at me so strangely? ” he added, 
abruptly, looking fiercely at Bob. “Do you doubt my word? 
Do you think she will not come ? Fiend, are you keeping her 
from me? Perdition ! if I thought it, I would throttle you.” 

It had come — the wild outbreak she had feared — and as 
Arthur advanced furiously upon her, poor Bob looked anxiously 
around for some means of protection. Flight was impossible, 
for he was between herself and the door, and there was no 
weapon of defence within reach. 

Backing away from him, with terror in her heart, but com- 
posure in her face and mien, she struck against something, and 
turning, beheld what she had entirely forgotten — the ladder 
leading to the loft where the garden-seeds were kept. Swift as 
thought she sprang up the steps, and, once within her hiding- 
place, tried to draw the ladder up after her, and so make good 
her retreat ; but Arthur, who had for the moment been stupefied 
by her rapid movement, sprang forward when he saw the ladder 
moving, and seizing, drew it once more to the ground, mutter- 
ing: 

“ Not so fast, my lady ; you have not escaped me yet. You 
must pay the forfeit of your sins; ” and replacing the ladder, he 
began to ascend, hand over hand, in a nervous, eager, and ex- 
cited manner. 

Bob once more glanced despairingly around, but every 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


215 


avenue of escape now seemed closed, so she tried to compose 
herself to meet her fate, and with clasped hands watched the 
madman’s ascent. He was already half way up ; it seemed as 
though she could feel his fingers closing on her throat ; and, 
seizing the ladder, she shook it so violently that the iron hooks 
loosed their hold, and it swayed back and forth in her hands. 

Here was a chance for life — a slight one, it is true, for her 
strength might give way at any moment ; but still, as long as she 
could keep the ladder from the wall she was safe, as no one 
could climb whilst it was so unsteady. 

Arthur felt the unexpected motion and paused in his ascent, 
standing about two-thirds up, completely puzzled. He raised 
his eyes ; a calm, fearless gaze met his own, and they fell, cowed 
by the superior power of reason. The moments passed — they 
seemed hours to poor Bob, whose strength waned rapidly — and 
just as she began to feel that further resistance was useless, her 
eye fell upon Jack and Dr. Marston walking rapidly down the 
garden-path. She tried to scream, but her terrible danger 
seemed to deprive her of the power, and only a low wailing 
cry escaped her lips. Low as it was, however, it reached Jack’s 
ear, and quickening his pace to a run, he was soon within the 
house. At the sound of his footsteps, Arthur turned his head, 
and springing from the ladder attempted to rush past him ; but 
Jack seized him firmly in his arms, and, after a struggle, 
succeeded in throwing him upon the ground, and, with Dr. 
Marston’s assistance, secured him from further violence. 

* 4 Where is Bob?” cried Eleanor, who had followed her 
father and Jack from the house, and then they noticed for the 
first time that she had not descended from the loft. Jack 
hastily climbed the ladder, appearing some moments after with 
an unconscious bundle of soft muslin in his arms. “ Help me 
to carry her down,” he said to the doctor, for, for the first and 
last time in her life, Bob had fainted. 


21 6 


o’er moor and fen. 


They conveyed Arthur to the house, where he was put to bed, % 
and left in the doctor’s charge, and Bob, as soon as she was 
sufficiently recovered, followed also. The revelry and feasting 
were over, the bride and groom had departed, and the deepen- 
ing shadows warned Bob to prepare for her return home, so the 
old “ one-horse shay” was ordered out, and she began to wrap 
her shawl around her, to keep off the chill October air. 

“ You were so long coming to my rescue,” said she to Jack, 
who was standing at her side, “ that I thought Nellie had for- 
gotten to tell you to come.” 

“She couldn’t find me. Poor Nell, she was almost beside 
herself with terror, when we at last met,” said Jack. “Tell 
me,” he added, winding her nubia around her, “why did you 
not run away when she did ? ’ ’ 

“How could I?” said Bob, looking very much surprised; 

“ had I not promised you not to leave Arthur until you 
came ? ’ ’ 

“And you risked your life rather than betray your trust,” 
said Jack, huskily. “Bobby, you’re a brick. I’m not a 
sentimental fellow, but I ’ll be hanged if I would n’t like to cry 
just here and now.” And something very like a sob broke 
his usually deep, manly voice, whilst he held both her hands in - 
his with a tremulous pressure, quite unlike his ordinary hearty 
grasp. 

The blood rushed to Bob’s face in a crimson tide, and she 
felt a curious mist rising before her eyes, as she witnessed his 
emotion. “Don’t be a goose,” she tried to say in an easy, 
bantering tone, but her voice quivered, and the words were al- 
most unintelligible. Jack led her to the door in silence, then 
placed her in the wagon, wrapping her up with tender ckre. 

“Bobby,” he said, “ I should like to — to — ‘ disgrace my 
family’ to-night,” and then, hastily shutting the carriage-door, 
he disappeared into the house, as it drove rapidly away. 




o’er moor and fen. 217 

For days and weeks Arthur remained delirious, until even 
Dr. Marston despaired of his recovery. Mr. and Mrs. Von 
Decker were very seriously perplexed as to what they should do 
with him, as the season came on when they were accustomed to 
return to New York for the winter ; but at last good Dr. Mars- 
ton came to the rescue, and relieved them from their embar- 
rassment, by having the young man conveyed to his house, 
which stood at no great distance from Beechcroft. 

“ Let him stay with me until his friends come after him,” 
said the kind-hearted old gentleman. “ Poor fellow, he is in a 
sad condition.” And Nellie packed away the pistol, together 
with Annida’s miniature and Arthur’s letter, carrying them 
away with her, as jealously hidden, as was his secret in her 
heart. 

The Von Deckers then packed up, and left the island for 
the season, plunging into the turmoil of New York fashionable 
existence, giving balls and routs, at which Annida Strathmore 
shone resplendent ; and Maude was happy because Roy was 
there. 

And Roy ? He waited for the answer to his letter to Elsie — 
at first with feverish eagerness, then, as the days passed and it 
did not come, with trembling anxiety, which was at last merged 
in blank despair, when the winter passed away and still no 
message came to him across the sea, from the poor little bird 
on her lonely perch, who sat, meanwhile, and sighed over her 
sad fate, believing herself forgotten — nay, spurned — for her 
penitent and loving note remained unanswered. 

19 



BOOK THIRD. 








* 









CHAPTER I. 


IN THE CONVENT GARDEN. 

“ This is truth the poet sings, 

That a sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.” 

T HE winter has passed away, with its ice and snow, the 
spring also is no more ; but June, beautiful, sweet-scented 
June, is here, ushering in the summer crowned with roses, to 
the joyous melody of the birds, which hail with untaught har- 
mony the bright sunshine and the renewed foliage. 

The “season” in New York is over, and once more the 
trunks come forth from the store-rooms, and the elite prepare 
fora “flitting” to Saratoga, Newport, Cape May, the White 
Mountains, in fact anywhere and everywhere, that they may 
escape the heat of the city, and, as they express it, “recruit 
their health after a winter’s dissipation.” This may be their 
purpose, but, to the uninitiated, it is a deep, unsolvable mystery 
how and when they “ recruit ; ” for the dancing continues with 
unabated zest all through the hot summer evenings — each hour 
gives birth to a new toilet, whilst walking, bathing, riding, 
driving, and flirting occupy all that remains of the day ; yet 
they return home in the fall, with the satisfied consciousness 
that they have done their duty to themselves and greet each 
other with little ecstatic embraces, exclaiming between each, 
“ Oh, my dear, how well you look ! As brown as a bun, I 
declare, and really quite stout ! ” the one addressed answering, 
19 * 221 


222 


o’er moor and fen. 


“Yes, do I not look well? You see I went to such a quiet 
place, my dear, — no balls, or anything of that sort, — only a 
little 4 German ’ in the evening, and X, drank milk, and walked, 
and rode, and had, oh, such a nice time.” 

There are, however, some sensible people, who do really 
recruit, by retiring to their country houses and resting there for 
a time, before they undertake the arduous duties of society at a 
fashionable watering-place, and among these is our old friend 
Mr. John Von Decker, who has already established his house- 
hold gods at Beechcroft, and persistently refuses to allow 
Maude to go to Newport, for at least a month, notwithstanding 
Mrs. Leonard Strathmore’s pressing invitation, urging-her to 
pay her a visit at her cottage as soon as possible ; and Maude is 
naturally indignant at such parental severity, especially as the 
Marstons, her only near neighbors, are going, taking with them 
Bob Stevenson and Arthur Leighton, and she will, therefore, 
be all alone, for Elsie — little Elsie — is still in Paris. 

She has only completed her first year at Madame Geradin’s 
academy, and is but seventeen years old, yet she is thinking 
sorrowfully of how bright and joyous these sunshiny hours are 
to those at home, and comparing her gayety of last year to the 
dull routine of her present life, although she really has no right 
to complain, for her “ lines have fallen in pleasant places,” 
in comparison with other girls of her own age at the same 
academy ; those who are still suffering from a miserable home- 
sickness, and from a want of savoir-faire have made themselves 
the butts of the school, until their lives are almost unendurable. 

Elsie never had these trials to combat. The novelty of 
all around her had soon effaced her longings for home and 
home faces, whilst her beauty and winning ways had captivated 
both scholars and teachers, with all of whom she at once became 
a pet. She was, however, the especial protege of the young 


o’er moor and fen. 


223 


French girl whom she mentioned in her letter to Maude — Julie 
St. Evremond — who, being her senior by a year or two, but very 
much behind her in the arts and coquetries of young ladyhood, 
looked upon her as a living wonder, and adored accordingly. 

Nothing could be more dissimilar than they were in appear- 
ance. Julie, a tall, dark, gaunt girl, with coal-black hair and 
eyes to match, appeared to more than usual disadvantage beside 
Elsie’s plump, round figure, snow-white skin, and golden hair, 
whilst the latter’s assured manner and ready answers, when in 
company, made her friend seem even more awkward than she 
really was. 

Yet Julie clung to her with undiminished affection, calling 
for her on every holiday, accompanied by le cher oncle, as 
she termed the Colonel, and taking her the rounds of all the 
theatres, and other places of amusement, diversifying the time 
now and then by a day’s shopping, the evening usually bring- 
ing with it a petit sonper , all of which our little American 
enjoyed immensely. 

But the day was near at hand when all these pastimes were 
to come to an untimely end, and poor Elsie to experience, in 
all its bitterness, that sense of loneliness and isolation of which 
she had spoken to Eleanor before she left home ; and when the 
blow fell, and she found herself alone and unprotected, she 
remembered, with pangs of remorse, how she had repined at the 
dull yet safe routine of the academy, and wondered that she 
had not been perfectly happy whilst she had companions. 

Rumors of the approaching war had, of course, reached Mr. 
Von Decker’s ears, but he was one of those hard-headed 
individuals who will not believe that “ coming events cast 
their shadows before,” and consequently took no steps towards 
recalling his daughter until the fatal declaration of war stared 
him in the face, and aroused him to a sense of his carelessness. 


224 


o’er moor and fen. 


He wrote at once to Elsie, notifying her that he would sail 
for Europe by the next steamer, and then began hurriedly to 
arrange his affairs preparatory to his departure. 

Elsie received his letter just as .she was about to accept an 
urgent invitation from Madame St. Evremond to accompany 
Julie and herself to Brussels, whither they had been advised by 
the Colonel to take refuge, until the troubles had blown over. 

“I cannot go now,” she said, despondingly, as she sat down 
upon her well-packed trunk, “ lest papa should come and not 
be able to find me. I must stay where I am, Julie dear, and in 
case of trouble, I am sure that you will not forget me.” 

So with weepings and wailings, and many embraces, the girls 
at length parted ; le cher oncle promising over and over again 
that he would call daily and see that Mademoiselle wanted 
for nothing, and convey her to a place of safety if danger 
threatened. 

And so her first friend left Paris, and her distress was quickly 
forgotten in the deep anxiety which began to oppress her, as 
one by one the scholars were recalled from the academy, 
until she alone remained of the fifty boarders; and still her 
father did not come, neither did she hear from him. 

Colonel St. Evremond called, as he had promised, every day, 
and had more than once urged her to accept his sister’s invita- 
tion, but Elsie was always quite sure that the next day would 
bring either her father or a letter, and so she lived in a state of 
alternate hope and fear. 

Mr. Von Decker had, as might be supposed, done his best 
to reach his daughter without loss of time, but, as is often the 
case when one is over-anxious to set off on a journey, he met 
with detention at every step, and when he at last actually sailed, 
the vessel met with an accident, and was obliged to lay over for 
a day or two for repairs. Thus the month of August found poor 


o’er moor and fen. 


225 


Elsie still within the walls of Paris, and her dismay reached a 
culminating point when Madame Geradin announced her in- 
tention of leaving the city at once, and requested her charge 
either to accompany her or find herself other lodgings. 

Elsie was still resolved not to leave Paris until her father’s 
arrival, and so in her despair she applied to le cher oncle , 
telling him her strait and imploring his protection. Colonel 
St. Evremond was no longer young — in fact, in the experienced 
eyes of seventeen summers, he was well advanced in years — she 
therefore felt very little embarrassment in thus appealing to 
him, much less, indeed, than did he, although a soldier and a 
widower, in accepting the charge committed to him. 

He listened to all she had to say with quiet gravity, urged 
once more the advisability of accepting his sister’s invitation, 
and then, finding her resolved upon her own course of action, 
bade her adieu, and took his way to the convent of Les sceurs 
de Charite , where he had a distant cousin living, and, placing 
Elsie’s sad story before her, found a refuge and a hearty wel- 
come for the young girl among the good sisters. 

Thither Elsie removed at once, leaving her address with the 
American minister, and then began a life so monotonous that 
it was difficult to tell one day from another. 

In the convent garden a swing had been put up for her par- 
ticular benefit, and there the poor child would sit hour after 
hour, musing over her hapless condition, or re-reading the old 
letters she had received from home, for want of any later in- 
telligence. Let us peep over her shoulder as she sits thus, idly 
swinging to and fro, and see if we can discover from her 
correspondence what has brought so grave a shadow over so 
young and beautiful a face. 

New York, Nov. 3d, 1869. 

I told you in my last letter, dear Elsie, all about Annida’s 
wedding, and Arthur Leighton’s sudden and mysterious illness, 

P 


226 


o’er moor and fen. 


and, owing to the multiplicity of my engagements, I have 
been unable to write to you since ; but Nellie Marston tells me 
that she has done so, so I suppose you have not missed my 
stupid scrawls. 

I am having a very good time here, although a great many 
persons have not yet come to town, for Roy, who is now my 
constant attendant, is forever finding something pleasant for 
me to do. Whenever the weather is good we have a gallop in 
the Park, and when it is bad he stays at home and reads to me 
whilst I work, or we play chess together, unless some stupid 
people interrupt us, and then we get up an impromptu dance. 

I suppose it seems very strange to you that I, who love society 
so much, should be content to pass my evenings so quietly; but 
do you know, my dear, I really believe I have lost my taste for 
going out, and Roy takes such pains to make himself agreeable, 
that I should be an ungrateful wretch if I did not appreciate his 
efforts. Indeed, he stays with me a great deal more than he 
ought to, and so I often tell him, but he only answers with a 
smile, “ When I find any one more agreeable, I will go away,” 
and so I have to put up with him and let him dance attendance 
on me, although I know it is occasioning much remark. Mrs. 
Turner came up to me in the street the other day, saying, “ My 
dear Miss Von Decker, you must allow me to congratulate you 
on your choice. Such a handsome, distinguished-looking young 
man as Mr. Weston is. The match in every way so suitable. 
If it is not impertinent, may I ask when the important event 
will come off?” I told Roy about it in the evening, and he 
wanted me to write her an invitation at once. 


Here Elsie abruptly closed the letter, and deposited it in its 
envelope. It was from Maude, of course, but after the first 
reading she had never again reached the signature, being unable 
with equanimity to bear the truth thus forced upon her, namely, 
that her sister had supplanted her in Roy’s affections. 

She had tried her feelings once more to-day, trusting that 
her later troubles had weakened the severity of this former one, 
but her lips quivered as she read, her breast heaved with emo- 


o’er moor and fen. 


227 

tion, and some bright drops fell upon the letters in her lap, 
proving, that despite her efforts, she was not yet mistress of her 
heart. 

“ It is my own fault,” she sobbed. “ I know he loved me 
once, but I was so cruel and wicked to him, that he does not 
love me any longer. I thought my letter would have made 
all right between us, but he was too angry to even answer it, 
and now he is going to marry Maude, and I shall have to live 
in the same house with them, and meet him every day, know- 
ing that I am nothing to him, nor ever can be anything but 
his sister. Oh, I cannot, cannot bear it,” and the tears streamed 
down the poor child’s face, whilst her whole frame shook with 
emotion. 

“ JBut I must bear it,” she exclaimed, suddenly arousing her- 
self from her grief. “ I must learn to think of it with patience, 
and conceal my own distress, for I will not have them know I 
suffer, and be an object of compassion to them.” And she 
ceased crying almost as suddenly as she had begun, wiping her 
eyes, and taking up another letter, which bore Eleanor’s super- 
scription : 

My dear Elsie (thus it ran), I am so weary to-night that 
I can scarcely hold my pen, yet I cannot bear to think of your 
missing your expected letter by the next mail, so I am going to 
try and tell you what has happened since I last wrote, and if I 
am unintelligible, you must forgive me, taking the will for the 
deed. 

Mr. Leighton, as I wrote you, has been very, very ill, and 
for some time his life was despaired of. His disease took a 
turn, however, some weeks ago, and papa thinks now that he 
is entirely recovered, both in body and mind. 

As far as his health is concerned, he is certainly much better ; 
but, Elsie, no one but myself knows how dreadful is his mental 
suffering. I cannot tell you all, for it is his secret and not 
mine, but he has been very cruelly used, and has no strength 


228 


o’er moor and fen. 


of mind to rise above his wrongs, but broods upon them night 
and day, unless I am at his side to drive the blue devils away, 
so that my time is never my own, as he calls upon me at all 
hours, and I cannot, of course, refuse him my society when he 
is so wretched. 

I do not think you would recognize me, dear, if you could 
sometimes hear me preaching to this young man. Fancy your 
bashful, timid Nellie scolding this handsome youth, and vio- 
lently upbraiding him for his want of manliness in shrinking 
from his troubles. Your cousin Roy (who, by the by, has 
been my assistant nurse), came upon us the other day in the 
middle of a lecture on the subject of the duties one owed to 
one’s fellow -men, and I shall never forget the amazement 
depicted on his countenance, when, turning suddenly, I en- 
countered his gaze. My eloquence, of course, ceased when I 
became aware of his presence, and he has ever since been try- 
ing to “draw me out,” but I never can talk to him, Elsie, 
although I agree with you entirely in considering him one of 
the handsomest and most attractive of men. He comes to see 
us very often — I am inclined to think more on account of your 
letters to me than my own attractions — for he always seems to 
be expecting some message or little enclosure, which never 
comes ; I wonder why not, cherie ? 

There ! the clock is striking midnight, and I must go to bed, 
so, good-night, my darling, and when you next write, remember 
what I have just told you. 


Your loving 


Eleanor. 


o’er moor and fen. 


229 


CHAPTER II. 

A JOYFUL SURPRISE. 

“ But hushed be every thought that springs 
From out the bitterness of things.” 

C ONTRADICTORY as these two letters appeared to be, 
they were both of them, nevertheless, quite true. Roy, 
sick at heart with “hope deferred,” sought Maude’s society 
continually, and was grateful to her for her kindness and good- 
will towards him ; but it had never occurred to him that her re- 
gard for him was anything more than cousinly affection, or that 
she could mistake the nature of his feelings for herself. It was 
not a cause for wonder, however, that the poor girl, loving him 
so dearly, should have been blinded to the truth, when Annida’s 
assertions, and his every action, coincided with her own convic- 
tion that he had always loved her. 

She had, it is true, intercepted a letter to Elsie, which was 
supposed at the time to have been written by him, but Annida, 
who had actual possession of it, told her that they had both 
been mistaken, and the note was only what it had purported to 
be, a little remembrance from Nellie herself. 

Maude was very mtfch relieved at this discovery, for her con- 
science had upbraided her severely for the theft, and she had 
felt almost unable to meet Roy’s eye, whilst supposing herself 
guilty ; but when her mind was set at rest on this point, she gave 
herself over to happy dreams, and enjoyed her cousin’s society 
without alloy. 

Roy, on his part, could not help but hope that some un fore- 
20 


230 o’er moor and fen. 

seen accident had prevented Elsie from answering his letter, 
and that, sooner or later, some note or message would arrive for 
him ; thus, after every mail he visited the Marstons, ostensibly 
to cheer Arthur Leighton, but, as Nellie knew, to look for an 
enclosure in her letter. 

More than once she thought of writing frankly to her friend, 
and asking her on what terms she was with her cousin, and 
whether she had received and answered his letter ; but as neither 
of the parties concerned seemed inclined to confide in her, she 
thought better of it, and contented herself with little ambiguous 
sentences on the subject when she wrote to Elsie, always keep- 
ing her answers for Roy to read when he came, in lieu of any- 
thing more Satisfactory. 

But of course poor Elsie, incarcerated in a convent in Paris, 
could form no conception of the truth, and so she sat and 
sighed her days away, growing more unhappy every hour, and 
scarcely longing for a release from captivity which would entail 
on her the daily sight of Maude and Roy’s happiness. How- 
ever much she tried to believe that she was cured of her folly, 
this letter of Maude’s always opened her wounds afresh, and 
then she would have recourse to Nellie’s (which breathed of 
hope), and when her equanimity was restored, give the credit 
to her own strength of character. 

Over and over she read it, now trying to reconcile it with 
what Maude said of Roy, and so deeply was she absorbed, that 
good Sister Marie Eloise stood at the convent door calling her 
for some moments ere the sound reached her. 

“Mademoiselle ! Mademoiselle Elsie,” fell upon her ears at 
last ; “oil est cette mechante fille ? Depechez-vous , mon enfant ; 
venez ici tout de suite. Votre papa est arrive, et vous attend 
dans le salon / ’ ’ 

These words, as might be supposed, brought Elsie back to 


o’er moor and fen. 


231 


the realities of life in a moment, and pausing only long enough 
to embrace this messenger of glad tidings, she flew to the par- 
lor, and was soon locked in her father’s arms. 

“ Oh, papa ! papa ! ” she exclaimed, pressing herself close and 
closer to his heart; “I thought you would never come,” and 
she cried and laughed alternately, whilst Mr. Von Decker, 
scarcely less agitated than herself, could only reply by mute 
caresses and loving kisses. 

There was a silent yet not unmoved spectator to this scene, 
who stood quietly beside the door, awaiting his opportunity to 
put in a claim for recognition. 

It was Colonel St. Evremond, but he made no effort to inter- 
rupt the happiness of the father and daughter, until, on Elsie’s 
exclaiming, as she concluded an account of her troubles — “And 
0I1, papa, how did you find me? Colonel St. Evremond left 
my address at the American minister’s, but I was so afraid 
it would be lost, and then you would not know where to look 
for me.” 

“I did not go to the American minister’s,” replied her 
father; “ the fact is, I had a great deal of difficulty in getting 
into the city at all, and when I had at last managed it, I had 
not gone fifty yards before I was arrested ; my Dutch face and 
name told against me, you know, and it would have gone hard 
with me if it had not been for a gentleman — an officer — good 
gracious ! I beg your pardon, sir, I had forgotten you were 
here. This is the gentleman, Elsie,” he continued, rising from 
his seat and leading her towards St. Evremond ; “thank him, 
my dear, in your very best French, for, but for him, you might 
never have seen your father again.” 

“ Colonel St. Evremond ! ” exclaimed Elsie, stepping forward 
and taking his hand in both of hers. “Indeed I will thank 
him, in both French and English ; and you must too, papa, for 


232 


o’er moor and fen. 


it is he who has taken care of your little girl ever since she was 
deserted by her friends.” 

“ Is it possible? ” said Mr. Yon Decker, in surprise. “ Well, 
our meeting to-day was indeed a most singular coincidence. I 
have already told you, sir, that I can never thank you suffi- 
ciently for rescuing me from prison this morning ; but your 
goodness to my child has made me your debtor forever.” 

“ You do me too much honor, sir,” replied St. Evremond, 
in a deep, sweet voice. “ 1 have done nothing more for you 
than common justice demanded ; and as for Mademoiselle, it 
must ever be a pleasure to serve her. ’ ’ 

“Do not trust him too far, papa,” said Elsie, laughing 
roguishly, “ he got so tired of me at one time that he wanted to 
send me out of the city ; but I was not to be so easily disposed 
of,” she added, “and now I am so glad that I was firm enough 
to resist. Think of my dear, precious old papa wandering all 
over France in search of his little girl. Was not my course 
the wisest ? ’ ’ she continued, looking up smilingly at St. Evre- 
mond. 

“ Cela depend , Mademoiselle,” he replied, with an answering 
smile. “There is certainly no danger at present of your 
father’s wandering all over France — Frederic William has pro- 
vided against that misfortune.” 

“ And when do we start for home, dearest ? ” inquired Elsie, 
turning once more to caress her father, and comprehending 
only in part to what Colonel St. Evremond alluded. 

“Indeed, my child, that is just what I cannot tell you,” 
replied her father, gravely. “ I can assure you that I found it 
difficult enough to get into the city, and I understand that it 
will be still more difficult to get out.” 

“Why so?” asked Elsie, looking with surprise from one to 
the other. “ Why can we not leave when we choose? ” 


o’er moor and fen. 


233 


It was now Mr. Von Decker’s turn to look amazed. “Bless 
the child!” he exclaimed, “does she know nothing of the 
war ? ’ ’ 

“ Not quite so bad as that,” replied St. Evremond, smiling ; 
“but as she was alone, and perfectly secure, I thought it best 
to keep her in ignorance of the fact that the city was besieged, 
lest she should experience needless alarm.” 

“The city besieged!” exclaimed Elsie, growing very pale. 
“ Oh, poor, dear papa, what a dreadful risk you ran in com- 
ing to me.” 

“I am too glad to have reached you alive to think of that 
now,” replied her father. “When I arrived at Liverpool, and 
learned the true state of affairs here, I was almost beside myself 
with remorse that I had not come to your rescue sooner.” 

“But what will become of us?” exclaimed Elsie, whose 
ideas of a siege were comprised in the words, “ pestilence and 
famine, murder and sudden death.” “We shall all starve or 
be shot ! ’ ’ 

“ I do not think you need be alarmed,” said St. Evremond ; 
“we are well provisioned, and as yet not a single attack has 
been made on the city. At all events, I am convinced that 
the siege will be of short duration,” he continued, turning to 
Mr. Von Decker. “ There seems to be no doubt that France 
is rising en masse , and in a few weeks, at the utmost, three 
armies must be prepared to throw themselves Upon the Prus- 
sians, who are, I understand, already very much disorgan- 
ized.” 

“I don’t know about that latter statement,” said Mr. Von 
Decker, shaking his head. “All that I have seen on my way 
here leads me to think that France is in a bad way.” 

“ For heaven’s sake, my dear sir, do not allow any French- 
man to hear you say so,” exclaimed St. Evremond; “he 
20* 


234 


o’er moor and fen. 


would instantly have you arrested and shot as a * German sym- 
pathizer.’ ” 

“Well, well,” said Mr. Von Decker, “I am usually ac- 
customed to ‘ call a spade a spade,’ but 4 in Rome do as the 
Romans do,’ is a very good adage ; so whilst Paris hospitably 
insists upon my remaining within her walls, I shall strive to be a 
Frenchman and believe everything I hear.” 

“ That is a wise resolve,” replied St. Evremond ; “and now, 
if you will permit me, I will say au revoir , as I have a review 
of my troops at twelve o’clock, and it is now past eleven.” 

He made a profound bow, and left the room, leaving father 
and daughter together alone. They remained silent whilst his 
firm, soldierly tread resounded along the corridor, and then, as 
the closing of a distant door announced his departure, Mr. 
Von Decker turned to Elsie, saying: 

“ Who is this gentleman, my dear, and how did you come to 
be so well acquainted with him ? ” 

“Oh, he is Julie’s cher oncle" she replied, carelessly. “I 
don’t know him very well — that is, I have never talked to him 
before as much as I did this morning. He used to take Julie 
and me out on a holiday, but he was always so grave and grand 
that I was afraid to speak to him.” 

“Well, you must not be afraid any more,” said her father, 
“but be very kind and polite whenever we meet, for I do not 
know what would have become of us without him. ’ ’ 

And then their conversation turned upon home and friends, 
and Elsie had so much to hear and say, that the day was not 
half long enough for her. She had to hear how they had all 
missed her at Christmas, and how they had drunk to her health 
on the anniversary of her birthday — how attached her father 
had become to Nellie Marston, and how he admired the doctor, 
who had not only saved Arthur’s life, but had insisted on his 


o’er moor and fen. 235 

remaining with him after his recovery, taking him into his 
office to study medicine. 

Through all that he told her, Elsie listened anxiously for Roy’s 
name, but her father never mentioned him until just before he 
left, when, in speaking of the anxiety that would be felt at 
home, when it came to be known that they were still within the 
besieged city, he said: 

“ It will be some time before they find it out, however, for 
Jack has gone to the sea-shore, your mother never looks at a 
paper, and Maude and Roy are so absorbed in each other that 
I doubt if they would know if their own country were in- 
vaded.” 

“But is there no way by which we can inform them that 
we are safe ? ” asked Elsie. “ Are we cut off from all commu- 
nication with the outer world now? ” 

“Not wholly,” replied her father. “Individuals will now 
and then force their way out of the city, and there is, I under- 
stand, a system of transporting the mails by balloons. I will 
write to your mother at once, and Major What’s-his-name will 
see the letter safely off, I have no doubt.” 

“Colonel St. Evremond, I suppose you mean,” said Elsie, 
laughing. “You dear old papa, you don’t remember names 
a bit better than you used to.” 

“It seems that my memory fails me in every way,” replied 
her father, smiling grimly, “ for I was quite sure that last sum- 
mer Roy Weston told me he loved you, and asked my permis- 
sion to make you a present, and, I think , I remember that I was 
uneasy lest you returned his affection ; but as he has never men- 
tioned the subject since, the chain hangs around Maude’s neck, 
and you have not as yet even inquired how he is, this must also 
have been one of my vagaries. What have you to say on the 
subject ? ’ ’ 


236 


o’er moor and fen. 


“That I am very glad I did not insist upon marrying the 
young man, owing to my papa’s representations,” replied Elsie, 
laughing again. “It would have been unfortunate had I, 
through a mistake, married my prospective brother-in-law.” 

“ I hope that it will be years and years before you marry any 
one, my darling,” said her father, kissing her fondly. “ I can- 
not lose my little bird so soon.” 

“ I am never going to marry at all,” replied Elsie, returning 
his kiss. “ I am going to live and die an old maid, for my late 
experience has taught me that existence without you is intol- 
erable.” 

“Oh, ho, what magnificent sentiments,” said her father, 
whose eyes twinkled with amusement. “ I need not then con- 
sult you when I receive an offer for your hand, but simply say, 

‘ No, sir ; Miss Elsie has taken a vow of celibacy. ’ ’ ’ 

“I see you do not believe me,” replied Elsie, quietly, and 
raising to his a very serious face, “ but I mean what I say never- 
theless. I shall never marry.” 

“Well, don’t look at me as though you thought I were 
going to object,” replied her father. “I don’t approve of 
coercion, and so I promise faithfully to let you have your own 
way in this matter. And now, good-bye, for the present,” he 
continued, rising from his seat. “ I shall be back again in an 
hour or, two, but I must secure lodgings for myself near by, so 
that I can keep guard over this ‘ dove-cot,’ and prevent any 
hawk from pouncing upon its inmates. ’ ’ 

He left her, and Elsie went to her room with a heart so full 
of both happiness and regret, that it seemed almost impossible 
to analyze her feelings. Her worst fears had been corroborated 
— Roy did indeed love Maude, and from henceforth he was 
nothing to her ; but then she had her loving, tender father at her 
side once more, and she felt that gratitude was due for his pres- 
ervation during his dangerous journey. 


o’er moor and fen. 


237 


“I cannot mourn for anything now,” she said to herself, as 
she stood at the window, looking down the street where he had 
disappeared. “ Roy, I have loved you dearly, but I will, from 
this moment, do my best to forget the past.” 


CHAPTER III. 


AMONG THE ROCKS. 


O life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 


To wretches such as I.” 



ONTRARY to Mr. Von Decker’s expectations, the war 


news did penetrate the shades of Beechcroft, but it 
occasioned no alarm to its inmates, for Maude and her mother 
had basked for so long in the sunshine of prosperity, that they 
had learned to look upon it as perpetual, and were unable to 
grasp the idea that any serious trouble could befall them. 

Roy was the first to become anxious, and even he hesitated 
to give words to his fears, until, upon the list of Americans who 
had left Paris, he failed to discover either Elsie’s or her father’s 
name; then, indeed, he hastened home, with terrible fore- 
bodings, lest his darling had missed her father, and, alone and 
unprotected, was exposed to the horrors of a siege. All his 
indignation at her long silence was forgotten— he now sajv many 
reasons for it which had before escaped his penetration. Per- 
haps she had never received his letter, or, having received it, 
had not been able to answer it unobserved ; or, owing to the 
troubled condition of the country, she might actually have 
written to him and her letter have been lost. 


238 


o’er moor and fen. 


However this might be, he could no longer cherish resentful 
feelings, when he forever beheld in his imagination a piteous 
picture of poor little Elsie, her sweet eyes looking wistfully 
around for help that never came — the bright bloom fading from 
her soft round cheek, as the food grew scarcer day by day — 
the girlish figure cowering before some brutish soldier, and no 
protecting arm near to save. 

Once more at Beechcroft he opened his heart to Maude, ex- 
plaining fully all his fears, and demanding sympathy for her 
sister, but, to his great surprise, she made light of the whole 
affair, and refused still to believe that any mischance had 
occurred. 

Elsie, she said, had probably left Paris before their father’s 
arrival, or their names had, by accident, been omitted from the 
list ; she was quite sure that they were safe and happy some- 
where, and thought herself a much more deserving object for 
sympathy, incarcerated as she was at Beechcroft, without a hope 
of leaving it all summer. 

Roy was annoyed at her insensibility, and endeavored once 
more to arouse her to a true sense of her sister’s position, be- 
coming, at length, indignant at her obstinate recapitulation that 
Elsie’s troubles existed only in his own imagination ; but 
Maude’s jealousy, which had been so long slumbering, now 
woke to life again, and, like a giant refreshed by sleep, seized 
upon her with renewed strength, so that she could not conquer 
nor even conceal it. Bitter words rose to her lips, and ere she 
was fully aware of what she was doing, a torrent of severe 
reproaches burst forth upon her cousin, who received them with 
undisguised amazement. 

She accused him of ingratitude, heartlessness, and a host of 
other sins, until Roy’s temper was fairly aroused. At first he 
controlled it with an effort, and endeavored to stem the tide of 


o’er moor and fen. 


239 


her causeless invective ; but, finding this at length to be impos- 
sible, he threw off all restraint, and expressed his opinion of 
her conduct in no measured words; after which he took his 
leave, not only of her, but of Beechcroft, too much excited to 
be willing to meet his aunt, and made his way back to the city. 

Arrived there, he tried to compose his spirits, and think seri- 
ously of what his own course should be under the circum- 
stances ; but the atmosphere was close and hot, and his mind 
would revert to the incomprehensible scene he had just been 
through, so that midnight found him as unsettled as ever in his 
plans, and, despairing of coming to any conclusion without 
some rest, he threw himself, dressed as he was, upon his bed 
and slept. 

The morning haply brought with it the desired composure, 
and on reviewing the case he determined to advise with Jack, 
who was, indeed, the proper person to take the first step in the 
matter, and to this end he packed his valise and set off for 
Newport. 

On his arrival he went at once to the Ocean House, where 
Jack was staying, but upon inquiry at the office he learned that 
he was out. Would he be home soon ? the clerk did not know; 
rather thought not, as he seldom passed his evenings there. 
Did the clerk think he could find him? Perhaps he might ; he 
went generally towards the Cliffs ; so Roy strolled that way him- 
self, disconsolate and disappointed. 

The twilight was coming on, and his walk was anything but 
inspiriting, so that when he reached the Cliffs, after one de- 
spairing look around, he threw himself upon the ground and 
gave himself up to sad reflections. 

These reflections, however, were soon broken in upon by 
voices, which seemed at no great distance from him, and he 
smiled as he said to himself, “A pair of turtle-doves come to 


240 


o’er moor and fen. 


coo among the rocks,” and then he sighed, and gave an atten- 
tive ear to what they said, although he knew it was very wrong 
to do so. 

“You must not give way to such feelings,” said a sweet, low- 
toned treble, reproachfully. 

“I can’t help it,” replied a deep baritone. 

“He’s jealous,” thought Roy, and smiled again, as men 
always do, when they discover a weakness in a fellow-man. 

“You are ungrateful,” continued the lady. “She risked 
her life to save yours, and you say that you cannot forgive her. 
Is this a proper return for so great a service ? ’ ’ 

“It was no service,” replied the gentleman. “ I wished to 
be rid of my misery, and she has bound the burden to* my 
back more firmly than before.” 

“Hush, Arthur,” said the lady, and Roy started, for it 
seemed to him that he had heard the voice before. “ You know 
I do not, permit you to say such naughty things, now that you 
are well. It is one thing to raise your hand against your life 
when mentally and physically ill, but quite another thing to 
defend the act, when sound in body and mind.” 

“Nellie,” cried the gentleman, and his voice sounded wild 
and passionate, “it is of no use for you to preach to me ; I cannot 
view these things as you do. Why should a man not part with 
a ruined life as he would with a worn-out garment ? If I wished 
to kill a fellow-creature, you would be right to prevent me if 
you could ; but my life is my own, therefore, why should I not 
do with it as I will ? ’ ’ 

“Arthur — Nellie! ” said Roy to himself; “can it be the 
Arthur and Nellie that I know ? but, heavens ! what a remark- 
able conversation.” 

“And is your life really yours?” asked Nellie’s musical 
voice; “did you, then, assume the responsibilities of your own 


o’er moor and fen. 


241 

accord, that you deem you have a right to shake them off when 
you see fit ? ” 

“ Were this so,” replied Arthur, “had I, indeed, placed 
the burden on my own shoulders, I should be a poltroon to 
try to rid myself of it ; but when it was placed there without 
wish of mine, I have surely the right left me to evade it as I 
would any other evil chance.” 

“Life did not come by chance,” said Nellie, “neither is it 
4 evil ’ until we have made it so. I might give you a knife, for 
instance, and if you used it properly it would be a good gift ; 
but if you perversely cut yourself with the sharp edge, it would 
be an evil gift, not through my fault though, but through your 
own ; and you would do wrong to throw it from you and vent 
your indignation on **y head. Life comes to us from God, 
and as we use it, so shall it be of use to us.” 

“ Life is misery ! ” exclaimed Arthur, “ and mankind are but 
the puppets in the show, made to please a ruthless tyrant whom 
you call ‘God’ and ‘Father,’ but who binds us in chains of 
iron, and condemns us to suffer eternal torments, both here and 
hereafter.” 

“ Have you always thought thus?” said Nellie; “has your 
life had no days in it when it was a happiness to live ? Think 
again, Arthur, before you revile your Creator.” 

For a moment there was silence, and, drawing nearer to the 
edge, Roy, unable to restrain his curiosity, looked over. Yes, 
there they were, some feet below him on the rocks — Eleanor 
Marston and Arthur Leighton — and the settled gloom on the 
face of the latter, proved, without doubt, that from his lips had 
come the mad words to which Roy had just been a listener. 

As he gazed at them, wonderingly, from his height, Arthur 
raised his hand and pointed downward to the water : 

“ See,” he said, in a deep, melancholy voice, “the epitome 
21 Q 


242 o’er moor and fen. 

of human existence ! See the struggle of the human soul 
against inexorable Fate ! In that seething mass below us are 
many million little drops of water; born in the same rill — 
many sons of many mothers — see them rushing onward to the 
boundless ocean, each striving to be foremost in the race — to 
leave his mark behind him. Watch how they struggle to be 
free — how they lift their crested heads to heaven in mad, im- 
potent agony, as they dash themselves upon the rocks and die. 
They are gone — their places know them no more — and min- 
gled with their last, despairing groans is the exultant shout of 
others, following in their wake to certain yet unseen death.” 

He moaned aloud at the frightful picture he had drawn, 
and buried his face in his hands, and Roy looked eagerly at 
Nellie. Was this the shrinking, bashful girl he knew as Nellie 
Marston ? Never ! Here was a woman, who for beauty and 
purity might have stood beside the angels, bending over the 
prostrate form of poor, half-crazed Arthur, stroking his silky 
hair with a sister’s tender touch, whilst in her large, lustrous 
eyes — eyes which he seemed never to have seen before — 
stood bright drops of womanly sympathy, which the angels 
would not probably have felt. The metamorphosis was so great 
that he could scarcely prevent himself from uttering an ex- 
clamation, which would have revealed his proximity and undone 
him forever. + 

“Arthur,” said this new Nellie, in a tremulous voice, “ you 
are not well enough yet to bear so much excitement. You 
must cease to think for a time, and be content to read nature 
through my eyes. Shall I tell you what I see in the waters ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, yes,” said poor Arthur, in a choked voice; “ talk to 
me, Nellie — &y what you will — I should go mad without you. ’ ’ 

“ These restless, troubled waves are the toils and turmoils of the 
world,” she said, still soothing him as one would a tired child. 


o’er moor and fen. 


243 


11 Yonder in that foam lie envy, hatred, malice, dark sins, and 
heavy cares. One false step, Arthur, and we are among them 
fighting for life, but whilst we hold fast to our faith, whilst we 
stand where God has placed us, on a rock, we can smile upon 
them in disdain. Let them beat against our place of refuge, 
they cannot harm us ; though it storm ever so madly, we are 
safe ; shall we then throw ourselves headlong into the abyss, 
Arthur, at the first clap of thunder which heralds the approach- 
ing tempest ? or, when the roar of the multitude offends our 
ears, and the din of life is too oppressive, shall we not rather, 
looking upward, fix our. eyes on heaven until the storm is 
past ? ” 

“ Until the day dawn and the darkness flee away,” murmured 
Arthur. “ Nellie ! Nellie ! you are my good angel. Oh, save 
me from myself! ” 

“Or rather save you for yourself,” said Nellie; “for that 
better self which , is springing up within you, and of which I 
shall one day be so proud.” 

Roy started to his feet. “I’m a wretch,” he said, “ to stay 
here and watch that girl ; I ’ll do it no longer,” and he hurried 
off at random down the cliff. 

“What incomprehensible things women are,” he continued, 
in soliloquy. “There’s. a girl who, to ordinary men, cannot 
give a simple greeting without confusion ; but when she meets 
with a half-crazed wretch, whom every one else shuns, she pours 
out upon him a flood of eloquence and sympathy.” 

“ Stand back there, man, will you? ” shouted a voice from up 
in the clouds, apparently. “Do you want to be run over?” 
and to his horror Roy discovered that he had walked directly 
into a horse, his abstraction and the increasing darkness having 
rendered him oblivious to the fact that a drag and pair were 
coming leisurely along the road from the opposite direction. 


244 


o’er moor and fen. 


“I’m very sorry,” began Roy, as he drew back, feeling as 
if he ought to apologize to some one for his stupidity, but the 
driver interrupted him merrily, saying: 

“ No necessity for an apology, my dear sir, I don’t think you 
hurt the animal,” and then peering into the darkness, he ex- 
claimed : “By Jove, it ’s Roy Weston. Well, young man, how 
long is it since you ’ve taken to butting about like a gigantic 
ram after dark ? ’ ’ 

“Jack! ” said Roy, now recognizing his cousin. “This is 
certainly a remarkable coincidence,” he continued, “that I 
should have been searching for you all the afternoon, and never 
find you until you drive over me. Where have you been?” 

“ We ’ve been to a clam-bake,” exclaimed a chorus of girls’ 
voices, “and have had such a delightful time.” % 

“ What brought you down so suddenly?” interrupted Jack ; 
“nothing wrong, I hope, with the Governor or Elsie?” 

“ I know nothing about them,” replied Roy; “I came to see 
if you could give me any information.” 

“We’re all in Egyptian darkness down here,” said Jack; 
“ but come along to the house, we shall be better able to tell 
you what we don’t know there, than out on the highway. 
Girls, can’t you make room behind there? ” he called, but Roy 
would not allow them to move ; springing upon the step, he 
declared himself very comfortably situated, and they drove on 
again merrily. 

“ Where are we going, may I ask? ” inquired Roy. 

“To Rose Cottage,” replied Jack. “The Marstons are there 
for the summer, and are having a very gay time.” 

“That is, their guests are having a very gay time,” said 
Roberta Stevenson, for of course she was one of the party; 
“but poor Nellie does nothing but nurse Arthur Leighton all 
day long. Her patience is positively angelic.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


245 

Roy thought of the scene he had just witnessed, and agreed 
with her in his heart, although he said nothing. 

“ Here they are,” exclaimed Jack, “ directly in front of us.” 

“In that case I will join them,” said Roy, hastily. “I 
should like to speak to Miss Marston before I take her father 
and mother by storm,” and dropping from his perch, he sud- 
denly presented himself to the astonished girl. 

The ordinary civilities being exchanged, she at once interro- 
gated him in regard to Elsie, but when that subject had been 
exhausted, they relapsed into silence, and she was once more 
the shy, constrained girl he had hitherto known. 

“ She ’s all ablaze with eloquence and poetic sentiments until 
I appear,” he thought, “and then , presto, out she goes, as 
though I were an extinguisher.” 

Nellie was thinking very much the same thing at the same 
time, and wondering at it, when Roberta Stevenson walked 
down the road to meet them ; the trio hailed her with delight, 
and Roy, transferring his attentions to her, they went briskly 
towards the house, leaving Arthur and Nellie once more in the 
rear. 

“It’s a hopeless case,” said Bob, laughing. “There’s no 
use in trying to relieve Nellie ; Mr. Leighton will soon have her 
as mad as himself.” 

“Is he then actually insane? ” asked Roy. 

“ Oh, no,” replied Roberta, “ he considers himself all right ; 
but when the moon is full, I ’d rather not meet him alone after 
dark. He dislikes me particularly, however.” 

“That proves that the poor devil is crazed,” said Roy, gal- 
lantly, and Jack called out from the open doorway, — 

“ Can’t you two people leave a few sweet things to say after 
supper, and come in out of the night air, before the food and 
the feeders have all taken cold? It’s a confounded shame, 


21 


246 


o’er moor and fen. 


Roy, for you to come down here and steal my sweetheart ; don’t 
you know that Bobby and I have been spooning frightfully all 
afternoon? By Jove ! she got so fond of me that she eat my 
share of the clams beside her own, for fear I ’d make myself 
sick.” 

“ And no wonder I did,” said Bob, laughing, “ for he picked 
out all the large ones for himself, and left me nothing but the 
odds and ends.” 

“ Oh, fie ! for shame ! ” said Jack ; “I blush for you, Roberta. 
I picked out the small ones purposely on account of the size of 
your mouth. I did n’t think you could get a large one into it, 
and this is my reward. Such base ingratitude — it makes me 
weep,” and he' raised the corner of his neckerchief to his eyes. 

“There! there! children,” said Nellie, coming up behind 
them, “stop quarrelling, and come in and eat your tea.” 


< 



CHAPTER IV. 


FRIENDSHIP OR LOVE. 

“ Oh, many a shaft, at random sent. 
Finds mark the archer little meant.” 


R OY received a hearty welcome from the hospitable doctor 
and his worthy consort, who pressed him to make their 
house his home whilst he remained at Newport ; but this kind 
offer he thought best to decline, not only because the party 
already in possession seemed even larger than “ Rose Cottage ” 
could conveniently accommodate* bt^ also because it was evident 
that if he wished to talk reason to Jack, it must be in some 


o’er moor and fen. 


247 


atmosphere less impregnated with fun and merriment than the 
one which surrounded Roberta Stevenson, who seemed to have 
formed a resolution to speak no word of common sense until 
her return home. * . , 

He persisted therefore in his original plan of lodging with his 
cousin, and on their way back to the Ocean House that night, 
relieved himself of his solitary anxieties, placing before Jack an 
unvarnished statement of his fears for Elsie, and proposing that 
one of them should go at once to seek her. Jack listened as 
attentively as he could wish, and. seemed equally anxious with 
himself, but he absolutely refused to agree to Roy’s proposition, 
reminding him that they two had been left by Mr. Von Decker 
to manage his affairs during his absence, and that to leave their 
post without orders from headquarters, would be an unpardon- 
able breach of discipline. 

He urged that, were their fears groundless, and should they^- 
learn on their arrival in France that Elsie and her father had' 
already started for home, they would be at a loss to aceountjfco 
their superior for their hasty conduct, and be likely to receive 
a severe reprimand. Roy admitted the truth of the suggestion, 
but advanced on his side-the supposition that one of them might 
arrive just in time to avert some heavy catastrophe, and thus be 
rendered happy for life in having yielded to his^ftrst impulse, 
which was, naturally, to seek the straying. 

They talked together far into the night, but without coming 
to any satisfactory conclusion, and at last, as the stars faded 
away, and the first feeble gleam of approaching day crept in 
upon them, they gave up the subject as 'hopeless, and, 
“adjourning the meeting sine die," retired to rest, determining 
to take no steps, at least, for the present. 

A week passed away, and then another, and still the young 
man remained irresolute, hoping, fearing, yet learning nothing. 


* 


248 


o’er moor and fen. 


Most of their time was passed at “ Rose Cottage,” and Roy’s 
happiest hours were those when Eleanor Marston, decoyed from 
the rest of the party, sat beside him on the rocks, and talked 
of Elsie ; the one theme on which she grew eloquent even with 
him. 

He loved to draw an untruthful picture of his darling, and 
hear her friend’s indignant denial of the likeness; to find fault 
with her conduct, and watch the flash of Nellie’s eyes as she 
eagerly defended the absent. 

“You are a stanch ally,” he said to her, smilingly, one after- 
noon, as they sat thus- together looking out upon the ocean. 
“ I should like to have a friend like yourself, who would so ably 
defend my character in my absence. What do you say, Miss 
Marston? will you accept the onerous position?” and as he 
spoke he took her hand in his, and fixed his eloquent eyes 
upon her, with a soft pleading look, which set Nellie’s pulses 
beating rapidly. 

She looked down upon the ground in a sudden fit of shyness, 
and the rare “ tea-rose blush ” stole into her colorless cheeks. 

“I cannot promise,” she said, at length; “Ido not know 
you well enough. You might do something very wrong, and 
then my conscience would not allow me to defend you.” 

She looked very lovely in her embarrassment, and Roy 
tightened his hold of the hand, which trembled in his grasp, 
saying as he did so : 

“But you are supposing an impossibility. Who that was 
honored with your friendship could so far forget himself as to 
be guilty of an action so blameworthy that you could not defend 
it? Try me, Miss Marston, I will not disgrace you — promise, 
at least, that you will not hear me slandered without speaking 
a word in my defence.” 

“ That I will gladly promise,” said Nellie, eagerly; “ I can 
never sit silent when any one is unjustly censured.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


249 


“ Any one” repeated Roy, in a disconsolate tone. “ Is that 
all you can do for me ? must I be classed with the common 
herd, and have no more favor extended me than what you 
would grant the most distant acquaintance ? I do not think 
that is fair ; I want something more, Miss Marston. ’ ’ 

Roy’s words had no definite meaning — they were merely the 
idle compliments which every man deems it his duty to render 
to the woman beside him, at certain times and in certain 
places, and without which they seem to think she would be 
unable to exist. His whole heart was so entirely given to his 
cousin, that he had no corner of it left in which to receive 
another guest, and why he so persistently implored Eleanor’s 
friendship, it would have puzzled even himself to explain, ex- 
cept that he was by nature a flirt, and could never miss an 
opportunity of looking unutterable things into a woman’s eyes 
when the occasion seemed to warrant them. 

There was another reason, however, underlying his present 
conduct, but he scarcely acknowledged it to himself, and this 
was that his pride induced him to endeavor to hide his love for 
Elsie, even from her intimate friend, until he had some certain 
information that she returned it ; and every day that his letter 
to her remained unanswered increased his desire to deceive 
Nellie as to its real purport. He could not resist talking of his 
cousin, but he always contrived to introduce the subject care- 
lessly, and to make it appear that Nellie herself had first 
broached it. 

With all his faults, Roy was not a conceited man, and it had 
never once occurred to him that the game he was playing might 
prove dangerous to Nellie until this afternoon ; but now, as he 
watched her varying color, and felt the hand he held fluttering 
within his own like an imprisoned bird, his conscience smote 
him, and a fear crept into his heart lest he had been acting un- 


250 


0 ER MOOR AND FEN. 


wisely — a fear soon to be changed to a certainty, as she raised 
her eyes to his, suddenly unveiling her inmost heart, whilst she 
murmured almost inaudibly : “ What is it then that you wish ? ” 

It was impossible to misinterpret her glance ; she was too 
innocent and unused to the ways of the world to have feigned — 
the deep feeling which he read therein, and bitterly did he 
curse his want of consideration in having selfishly made use of 
her pour passer le temps , and to dissipate his increasing anxiety 
on her friend’s account. He had but a moment in which to 
consider his proper course of action, for she was awaiting his 
answer with parted lips and anxious, expectant look ; but in that 
moment he formed the bold resolution of telling her the whole 
truth, at whatever hazard to his own miserable pride. 

“I want you to be my friend,” he replied, looking at her 
with a gentle, serious expression, all tendresse entirely thrown 
aside; “ my friend as truly as you are now Elsie’s, for I trust 
at some not very distant period to make her my wife, and I 
should be jealous of so very zealous a friend as yourself who did 
not include me in her friendship. Do you understand now why 
I have sought your society so persistently, and made such a 
demand upon your time and sympathies? Elsie is the one 
thought of my life, and she has talked of you so constantly that 
your very name recalls her image.” 

Long before he ceased speaking, Nellie’s eyes had again 
sought the ground, and her hand had ceased to tremble, and 
now she said; in a calm, sweet voice, in which no tremor could 
be detected : 

“ I understand you perfectly, and thank you for your frank- 
ness. Your love is well bestowed, and I congratulate you sin- 
cerely on your choice.” 

“And your friendship?” said Roy, as she paused; “ may I 
count that as secure? ” 


o’er moor and fen. 


251 


“It is yours now without reservation,” said Nellie, with a 
smile ; “ your love for Elsie will cover a multitude of sins,” and 
she continued to talk on quietly without a shade of embarrass- 
ment, descanting on her friend’s charms and many lovable 
- cha racteristics, and dwelling with apparent pleasure upon the 
happy future in store for her and himself. 

Roy said nothing at all in answer to all this; in fact, Nellie’s 
former shyness seemed all at once to have been transferred to 
him, and he sat silent and awkward at her side, holding her 
hand as though he did not exactly know what to do with it. It 
is very mortifying when we have braced ourselves up to the 
point of acting magnanimously to discover suddenly that the 
magnanimity only existed in our imagination, and thus Roy, 
who had worked himself into a fever of generosity, and nobly 
confessed his secret to check all delusive hopes that he might 
have raised in Eleanor’s heart during the last few weeks, felt, 
as she cheerfully discussed his future with him, as though he 
had perhaps been rather hasty, or, to use his own words, had 
made “a consummate ass of himself.” 

His position became more unendurable every moment, and 
at last, making some hasty excuse, he quitted her side, feeling 
it absolutely necessary that he should be alone for a little while, 
if he was ever to recover his composure. 

And Eleanor ? why she also was glad to be alone, and breathed 
more freely as his step grew fainter in the distance. In- 
wardly she was not as composed as she was outwardly, but her 
feelings were so new and strange that she only comprehended 
them in part, and thought her agitation due to the mingled 
pain and pleasure with which she regarded Elsie’s marriage. 

“It will estrange her from me, and she is my only friend,” 
she thought, looking wistfully out to sea, “ but I ought to be 
very glad that she has given her heart so wisely, and drop all 


252 


o’er moor and fen. 


selfish repinings. He is in every way worthy of her — so gen- 
erous, so noble, so attractive, so devoted. Oh, yes, I am very 
happy that she has won him,” and then — strange incongruity 
— she wept ; but one never knows certainly what a woman will 
do under excitement — just as we think she will smile, she often 
cries, and vice versa. 


CHAPTER V. 


BOBBY.” 


“ And sat upon a rock and bobbed for whale.” 

HILST Nellie sat and wept, another lonely damsel 



V V strayed out upon the rocks, namely, Roberta Stevenson, 
and “perched” herself in solitary grandeur to await Jack’s ap- 
pearance on the scene, for she had promised to go sailing with 
him in the afternoon. But solitude did not agree with Bo t b ; she 
always felt, she said, a need of some one to enjoy it with her, 
as she never could be quiet long enough to follow out a train 
of thought. She would rather have been a scullion in the 
kitchen than lived alone in state upon a throne, and when 
there was no one near to talk to, she usually broke out in 
snatches of little songs ; and the incongruity of the medley 
must have made any one smile who heard her, for they were 
usually regulated by what was taking place around or in her 
own mind ; hence she now passed, with easy transition, from 
“ Love lies dreaming” to “ Six o’clock is striking,” on hearing 
the venerable timepiece in the cottage give out the hour. 


“ First he gives me apples, then he gives me pears,” 


she shouted, 


And then he gives me sixpence to spend among the fairs.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


253 


“Beautiful,” said Jack’s voice beside her, “but the ‘six- 
pence’ came ‘first’ I know,” and he dropped a little coin in 
her lap. 

“No,” she said, laughing, “the ‘apples’ came first in the 
original, but we ’ll transpose it to suit the occasion. Where 
have you been, truant? Do you know I’ve been waiting for 
you for half an hour ? ’ ’ 

“ So have I,” said Jack, seating himself beside her. 

“So you have what?” demanded Bob; “ been waiting for 
yourself? ” 

“Not exactly,” he replied, laughing; “put the question in 
another form. I ’ve been waiting for the mail, and you ’ve been 
waiting for a male.” 

“ Did you get a letter? ” asked Roberta. 

“No,” said Jack, “the letters had not been sorted when I 
left, on your account, but Roy has taken my place, and will get 
what there is for me. I am very anxious to hear from abroad,” 
he added, “and had I known that you were rhapsodizing over 
the ocean, and happy in my absence, I think I should have re- 
mained where I was.” 

“Go back if you wish to,” said Bob, “but don’t add insult 
to injury by calling me ‘happy,’ when I’m all alone ‘by the 
sad sea waves.’ ” 

“Why can’t you possess your soul in peace,” said Jack, 
“ and sit ‘ upon a rock and bob for whale ? ’ ” 

“I might for fifteen minutes,” replied Roberta, “but after 
that I should precipitate myself into the water, if no one came 
to my relief.” 

“Then I should have to ‘sit upon a rock and “wail” for 
“Bob,” ’ ” said Jack, dolefully. “ What an awfully tragic thing 
it would be. The newspapers would have it all in an ‘ extra, ’ 
headed * The Lore Lei of the nineteenth century. A young girl 


22 


254 


o’er moor and fen 


springs into the sea, singing that sweet melodious measure 
“Six o’clock is striking.” ’ Then the fellows would want our 
photographs, and how beautiful you ’d look in your ‘ sea- weedy 
trophy.’ Oh, do jump, Bob; here’s a chance to immortalize 
ourselves.” 

“You don’t suppose I’ll go alone,” said Roberta, “and 
leave you to enjoy the fun, do you ? Not I. When I jump, I 
shall take you with me as a ‘ weedy trophy.’ ” 

That’s a shameful reflection on my cigar,” said Jack. 
“Insult me, Robert, if you will, but spare my friend. Come, 
if you wish to go sailing, we must start at once.” 

“ Oh, I don’t care particularly about it,” replied Bob, “ and 
as you are anxious about yoqr letters we may as well stay where 
we are until Mr. Weston brings the mail.” 

“ All right,” said Jack ; “ we ’ll sit and look at the water, and 
grow sentimental.” 

“ I ’ll look at the water, if you wish me to,” said Bob, laugh- 
ing, “but I can’t be sentimental; it’s not in my nature.” 

“But that ’s the proper thing to be when you sit by the sea- 
side with the man of your heart,” said Jack. “ * Make an effort, 
Mrs. Dombey,’ and see if you can’t be fashionable. What do 
you think of this vast expanse of water, Miss Stevenson? ” 

“ ‘ Neat but not gaudy,’ ” replied Bob, “ ‘ as the monkey said 
when he painted his tail blue.’ ” 

“Roberta,” cried Jack, “this is absolutely shameful; I must 
really undertake your education. See now, my child, if you 
cannot commit a sea poem to memory, so that you may not 
again disgrace yourself when asked that question. Try and 
repeat these words after me — I ’ll say them slowly : 






The sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 
The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! ” 


o’er moor and fen. 


255 


“What nonsense,” exclaimed Bob. “ There ’s an absurdity 
in the first line, and three lies in the last. It ’s a pity the author 
didn’t wash the cobwebs from his brain by a ‘dip’ in ‘The 
sea, the sea, the open sea,’ instead of lying about it. Who 
ever heard of a ‘ fresh sea,’ I should like to know ? He ’d bet- 
ter swallow a little of it, and that will set him right on that 
point.” 

“How about ‘the blue’ and ‘the ever free?’” said Jack, 
laughing heartily. 

“Can anything be free when it has prescribed limits?” 
asked Roberta; “and as for its color, it changes like a chame- 
leon; close to the rocks it is gray, fringed with silver; a 
little further out a pale sea-green ; whilst yonder, where the 
sun is shining, it is violet, tipped with gold.” 

“Bravo,” cried Jack; “you beat Bryan Proctor all to 
pieces. There is music in your soul after all, Robert, only no 
one knows how to play upon the instrument. The right fellow 
will come along some of these days, and then you ’ll go walk- 
ing about with a rhyming dictionary under each arm.” 

“ Not at all,” replied Bob ; “ I ’ll make him carry them for 
me, and when he wants ‘sentiment,’ I ’ll refer him to the books. 
It is much the safer method of courtship, because there can be 
no misunderstanding in the case, and when the lover is referred 
to Volume II., page 21, sixteenth line, for the sentiment corre- 
sponding to ‘heart,’ he’ll find ‘cart,’ ‘start,’ ‘part,’ ‘tart,’ 
and a variety of others, from which he can choose the one he 
wishes, instead of hearing but commonplace from the lips of his 
beloved, which might not be to his taste.” 

“ It ’s a beautiful idea,” said Jack. “You’re a woman of 
genius, Roberta. I ’m beginning to be afraid of you, my dear, 
you ’re getting so strong-minded. Do — do — don’t marry me 
until I ’ve asked my ma, will you? ” 


256 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ I ’ll give you plenty of time,” said Bob, gravely; “not 
only for that, but to get your trousseau and here their conver- 
sation was broken in upon by Roy, bearing in triumph the long 
expected letter from abroad. 

Jack tore it open eagerly, and read it aloud, whilst Roberta 
and Roy stood beside him and listened; and although it cor- 
roborated their fears that the travellers were within the besieged 
city, it was a relief to know that they had met, so, taking it all 
in all, the news was good, and as such they celebrated it with a 
regular jollification. 

Late that night Roberta stood beside the table in the room 
which she shared with Eleanor Marston, turning something over 
and over in her hand. 

“There’s a hole in it,” she said, half aloud, and she turned 
it over again. 

“ A hole ? ” murmured sleepy Nellie, from beneath the bed- 
clothes; “ there’s cotton in my basket, dear, darn it.” 

“I never have sworn in my life,” said Bob, “and I don’t 
see why I should begin on your cotton. ‘Darn it ’ indeed,” 
and she cast a merry look upon what she held in her hand, which 
was nothing more or less than the coin Jack had dropped into 
her lap in the afternoon. 

“ The hole is pretty large,” she said, after a pause. 

“I can’t help it,” said poor Nellie, with a drowsy sigh; 
“put something in it.” 

“Great minds think alike,” said Bob, laughing; “that’s 
just what I want to do. Give me a little piece of ribbon, and 
I ’ll stop it up.” 

“Anything you want, dear,” purred Nellie, more than two- 
thirds on her way to the land of nod ; “look in my basket,” 
and Roberta lost no time in doing so. 

“Tape?” she said, looking inquiringly at a roll, “it’s too 


o’er moor and fen. 


257 

thick to go through the hole. Spool cotton ? ” she continued, 
“it's too thin, it will cut my throat. Bobbin? that will do 
exactly,” and stringing the coin, she tied it around her neck, 
dancing before the glass to see the effect, and singing, as her 
bright eyes sparkled back at her : 

“ There was a little robin, 

Who tied a piece of bobbin 
Around her neck, for a charm, charm, charm; 

She said, ‘ Ye powers above, 

If e’er I fall in love, 

May it hang me, and keep me from harm, harm, harm.’ ” 


CHAPTER VI. 

A NEW HERO. 

“ A combination and a form indeed, 

Where every god did seem to set his seal, 

To give the world assurance of a man.” 

t 

I T is now the seventh day of October, and from the north, 
south, east, and west, the summer tourists are returning to 
their winter homes, to take up once more the burden of life, and, 
by severe application to business, atone for their long holiday. 

The Newport party are at home again on Staten Island, all 
but Roy, who, not having yet made his peace with his cousin 
Maude, thought it best to go at once to the city, for the 
nominal purpose of attending to his uncle’s affairs. 

It is “an early fall,” as the saying is; the trees have already 
lost their verdure, the birds have sung their farewell songs, and 
22 * R 


258 


o’er moor and fen. 


flown away to a more congenial clime ; and nature seems to be 
in haste to don her winter garb, if one may judge by the 
gossamer veil of frost-work with which she every morning 
shrouds herself. 

None of our friends are very happy — the frost seems to have 
blighted their jollity with the flowers, and although the sun 
streams forth cheerily, and seems inclined to make amends for 
dame nature’s severity, every one mopes and is discontented 
with himself or some one else. 

Eleanor Marston is still waiting upon Arthur, and nursing 
back his lost interest in life, but all the while there is something 
wanting in her own, although she dares not confess it even to 
herself. She misses Roy’s handsome face, his bright genial 
smile, and the numberless trifling attentions which she received 
from him during the weeks they passed together by the sea, but 
she will not acknowledge this, saying always as she sighs, “It 
is Elsie that I miss so sadly ; oh, would that she were at home 
once more.” 

At Beechcroft Maude is as nearly “ cross ” as a young woman 
of her good breeding can be ; Mrs. Von Decker is nervous and 
dispirited, and Jack is plunged over head and ears in a sea of 
farm accounts, which have been for some time collecting, owing 
to his father’s absence. 

Even Roberta Stevenson seems dull, going through her 
accustomed round of duties in a spiritless way, which calls forth 
repeated complaints from “the brethren,” who have never, up 
to the present time, considered that she had a right to bi 
miserable when they would have her merry. Home seemed so 
dreary to her after the gay life she had led at “ Rose Cottage.” 
Jack was too busy to come and see her, and now that neither 
Elsie nor Eleanor were at Beechcroft to be visited, her pride 
forbade her going thither, knowing well what construction 
Maude would put upon her visits. 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


259 


So everybody was unhappy, and everybody said, “It is be- 
cause Elsie is not at home,” until it became a matter of surprise 
to them that they had not more highly prized her whilst she 
was still among them ; meanwhile she, whose absence they so 
deeply deplored, believed herself forgotten, and sought eagerly 
each day to drive the past further and further from her mind. 

She was not unhappy ; in fact, her life flowed on smoothly 
now. Although her fears had at first been many, yet, as time 
passed, she became accustomed to her situation, nor heeded the 
booming of the guns more than the familiar twittering of the 
robin-redbreast, in the old homestead where she was born. 

Paris had changed its aspect very much since she had first 
arrived, little more than a year before, but the change had been 
so gradual that it remained almost unnoticed by her; and 
guns, pickets of horses, tents, camp fires, and soldiers seemed 
in their natural places beneath the great trees in the garden of 
the Tuileries. 

The Champs Elysees was, it is true, almost deserted. No 
private equipages rolled along its beautiful carriage roads as of 
yore, and few if any loiterers were to be found upon its chairs. 
The Champs de Mars was a camp, and along the quays by the 
river-side were cavalry and infantry regiments with the tentes 
d' abri. 

Often and often in the evening she sallied forth with her 
father and Colonel St. Evremond, who was now their constant 
guide and companion, and threaded her way between private 
barricades erected by trembling citizens, and street hawkers’ 
tables, whereon would be exhibited statuettes of the “two in- 
separables of Berlin, William and his little Bismarck,” or Gen- 
eral Trochu and" the members of the government, in gilt ginger- 
bread, and unless, as sometimes happened, they chanced to 
meet a litter whereon lay a wounded soldier, or an unfortunate 


260 o’er moor and fen. 

wretch, under suspicion of being a spy, being dragged to justice, 
followed by a howling mob, she would return home as placid 
and contented as though she were living in the midst of peace 
and plenty. 

Colonel St. Evremond was a soldier of the “line,” and his 
regiment was kept outside the city, yet he contrived to be on 
hand whenever he was wanted by our friends, and seemed, 
indeed, to enjoy nothing more than piloting them through the 
crowded city from wall to wall, and listening with keen 
amusement to Elsie’s naive suggestions in regard to fortifica- 
tions and defences, and to her father’s no less naive opinions 
in regard to French politics. 

Louis Eugene St. Evremond, fourteenth baron de Cavaignac, 
was a Bourbonite at heart, and the day when he had found 
himself obliged to take up arms for Napoleon III. had been a 
dark one in his calendar ; but he was then a younger son, with 
no patrimony, and there were no means of subsistence for him 
save the army or a wealthy marriage. His father, therefore, 
waived his prejudices, and forced upon him a military life, 
marrying him, also, as soon as possible, to a young French girl 
of no very high rank, but possessed of a good fortune in her 
own right. 

This poor child was an orphan, and, until her marriage, had 
lived entirely within the walls of the convent, where she had 
been educated, a petted guest of the good nuns, who pitied the 
friendless condition of the little heiress — so wealthy in all the 
world could give, so poor without that one great gift of heaven, 
love; and when she left their tender care, it was with many 
blessings and prayers, that in her husband’s house she might 
find that which hitherto her life had lacked. 

This, however, was not to be the case. She never loved St. 
Evremond, whilst, on his part, although he was scrupulously 


o’er moor and fen. 


261 


attentive to his wife’s comfort, her presence or absence was a 
matter of indifference to him, and an order which took him 
from home was rather a subject of congratulation than other- 
wise. Thus they dragged on an existence of a few years 
together in the eyes of the world, but, alas ! with hearts as far 
asunder as the poles, until Teresa, for so she was called, sank 
beneath the burden of a mistaken life, and buried her com- 
plainings in the grave, leaving St. Evremond a widower, thirty 
years of age, with a large fortune, unencumbered save by a puny 
infant of some twelve or fourteen months, which bade fair to 
follow its mother within the year. 

Every one supposed that St. Evremond would marry a second 
time, a.nd, as his father and elder brother also died soon after, 
leaving him the title and estates of Cavaignac, he was con- 
sidered a very desirable parti , and all the mammas with mar- 
riageable daughters endeavored to catch him with the matri- 
monial halter ; but, for some unexplainable reason, he proved 
impervious to their attacks upon his liberty, and, giving his 
little son into his sister’s care, devoted himself exclusively to 
his profession, to which he had by this time become resigned. 
It was now seven years since his wife had died, and he still 
retained his freedom, living as quiet and retired a life as his 
duties would allow, and devoting himself to the education of 
his boy. 

This, then, was Elsie’s sole companion — a man in his thirty- 
eighth year, of middle height, of proud, resolute, and soldierly 
bearing, with a dark, keen, gray eye, that seemed to force 
obedience from the most refractory. The discipline of the 
forces within the walls of Paris was far from being what it 
should have been, but Colonel St. Evremond’s regiment stood 
at the head of the soldiers of the line, with an unblemished 
reputation for steadiness under fire. 


262 


o’er moor and fen. 


His features were too strongly marked to be absolutely hand- 
some, and here and there, conspicuous among its dusky fellows, 
shone a snow-white hair, which, together with his habitual 
gravity and taciturnity, gave him the appearance of being a 
much older man than he really was. 

There was very little freedom in his intercourse with Elsie, 
for he regarded her as nothing more than a forward but amus- 
ing child, and, although inwardly piqued, at his want of appre- 
ciation, she, so ready usually with her tongue, was often at a 
loss for something to say, sitting mute whilst her father told of 
home and home pleasures to their silent companion. 

Sometimes, as they rolled along the boulevards in a fiacre , 
drawn by an overworked, ill-fed animal, her mind would sud- 
denly revert to Beechcroft, and she would see, as in a picture, 
the lofty green trees, the bright sun shining on the bay, her own 
pony carriage, with the pretty bays, so beautifully matched, 
and above all Roy’s face, eloquent with anticipated pleasure, as 
he stood holding the reins and curbing the restless animals 
until the candidate for the seat beside him should appear. 
And who would that be, now that she was no longer there? 
Who could it be but Maude? and then, with a bitter* heavy sigh, 
she would lean forward in the carriage, and strive to forget 
these wretched morbid fancies, in the stir and bustle of the 
miniature world in which she now lived. 

St. Evremond would fix his eyes curiously upon her at such 
times, and so deep and penetrating was his gaze, that she often 
sank back again upon her seat with a palpitating heart, fearful 
that her sad little romance had been read upon her face. She 
felt that she could bear anything better than the knowledge 
that this stern man possessed her secret, and her cheeks burned 
at the mere thought of the contemptuous smile with which he 
would regard her woes. He gave her no reason, however, to 


o’er moor and fen. 


263 


be anxious on that score, for beyond looking at her, he paid no 
attention to these dark moods, save now and then, when they 
lasted longer than usual, to ask, in a strangely gentle voice to 
issue from so heavy a moustache : 

“ Qu ’ avez-vous , Mademoiselle? Etes-vous malade ?” and 
when she had uttered a confused negative, he would turn his 
eyes away and apparently forget her. 

As for Mr. Yon Decker, he had hitherto borne his captivity 
better than could have been expected, considering the neglect 
to which his financial interests were exposed at home during his 
prolonged absence ; but now he began to be restless, and had 
even gone so far this morning as to interrogate Mr. Wash- 
burne as to the probability of his being able to force his way 
through the lines without a special permit, but was informed 
by that gentleman that it would be extremely dangerous to 
make an effort to leave the city even with a pass, and alone, 
it would be downright insanity to do so without one, and ac- 
companied by his young daughter. 

He returned home now, for the first time, dissatisfied and un- 
happy, and inclined to visit his woes upon the innocent heads 
of his companions, Elsie and St. Evremond. 

“I tell you, sir,” he exclaimed, turning to the latter, as 
though he were the chief instigator of the siege, and personally 
to blame for their captivity, “ that my business will go to the 
dogs if I remain here a week longer. I shall be ruined, sir, 
absolutely ruined ’ ’ 

St. Evremond looked at him with deep concern, judging from 
his manner that something was amiss, but he made no imme- 
diate response, as Mr. Von Decker’s words seemed to him 
rather ambiguous, and he was trying to reconcile the idea 
of les chiens monopolizing his unfortunate friend’s business, 
and thus ruining his financial career. A few words muttered 


264 


o’er moor and fen. 


in French revealed his perplexity to Elsie, who burst into a 
little peal of laughter at the misunderstanding, to the great 
surprise of both her companions. 

St. Evremond regarded her with quiet gravity, but her merri- 
ment added to her father’s rapidly increasing indignation, and 
turning on her sharply, he exclaimed : 

“What is it that you find so amusing in my troubles, Miss 
Elsie, may I ask ? It is unkind to keep it to yourself ; Colonel 
St. Evremond and myself would like to laugh also.” 

Elsie’s mirth died a sudden death. Never before had her 
father looked at her so sternly, or spoken in so severe a tone, 
and for a moment she was too much startled to reply. 

“It is a strange subject for delight,” continued her father, 
pacing up and down the room. “You act as though you pos- 
sessed no heart. Here you have been separated from your 
mother, your brothers and sister for over a year, and when I 
say that it may be a year more before you see them again, you 
laugh hilariously.” 

“It was not at that, I laughed,” said Elsie, falteringly, “it 
was at what you said last — about your business — about — ” 

“Oh, I don’t want to hear any more,” interrupted her 
father. “ ‘ Least said, soonest mended ; ’ don’t attempt to ex- 
plain — you will only make matters worse. Colonel, you will 
find me at my rooms when you want me,” and, snatching up 
his hat, he left the convent in hot haste. 

Elsie moved over to the window, and stood with her back to 
St. Evremond, trying to force back the tears with which her 
eyes were filled into their proper channels, and he, after paus- 
ing irresolutely about half-way to the door through which Mr. 
Von Decker had made his hasty exit, turned slowly around, 
and made his way to her side. 

“Is it true, Mademoiselle,” he said>, “that you would be 
sorry to leave La Belle France ? ’ ’ 


o’er moor and fen. 


265 


“ No, Monsieur,” replied Elsie, in a low voice. “ La Belle 
France is nothing to me. The summons to leave at once would 
cause me but little concern.” 

“Why then did you not say to your father that you desired 
above all things to return home?” asked St. Evremond, en- 
deavoring to get a glimpse of her face. “ It would have 
pleased him much, and now he has left you in anger.” 

“Because — because — that would not have been true either, 
Monsieur,” said Elsie, in a still lower voice. “ I do not wish to 
go home.” 

“Ah ! ” said the Colonel, in a reflective tone, “you do not 
then wish to see your mother and sister and the little boys? ” 

“ My mother will not miss me whilst she has Jack,” replied 
Elsie, evasively; “the boys do nothing but tease me when I 
am at home, and my sister — my sister will be married soon.” 

“ And the old homestead^ — the place where you were born,” 
continued St. Evremond, “has it no place in your heart, Mad- 
emoiselle? ” 

“ Why should it?” said Elsie, passionately. “ Why should 
I love those old mouldering walls ? not surely for the reason you 
mention, because within them I first saw the light of life. No, 
only animals cling to places — human affections have no local- 
ity — the heart makes a home anywhere that it is loved.” 

“But surely your heart finds most to love on its native 
soil?” said St. Evremond; “there, therefore, it must long to 
return.” 

“ My heart needs but one to make a home for it in the 
desert,” replied Elsie, “and that one, Monsieur, is my father, 
and he is angry with me,” and the tears, until now restrained, 
fell streaming over her face, and trickled through the fingers 
which she held up before it. 

“ Pauvre enfant ,” said St. Evremond, “ ellepleurt" and then 
23 


266 


o’er moor and fen. 


stroking her hair gently, he continued, “do not weep, my dear 
little child, I will at once see Monsieur votre pere , and, depend 
upon it, he shall not be long angry with you. Au revoir. I 
go to seek him,” and he turned at once and left the room. 


CHAPTER VII. 


PASSING THE “ LINES.” 


As headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile.” 


RECONCILIATION was soon effected between the 



Jr\ father and daughter. Indeed, it was with some difficulty 
that the Colonel persuaded the former that his little girl was 
weeping over his hasty words, which had been forgotten almost 
as soon as uttered. 

“The fact is,” he said, confidentially, as he suffered himself 
to be led back to the convent, “ this confounded siege is ruin- 
ing my temper as well as my fortunes. By some means or 
other I shall leave Paris this week. I will not be bullied any 
longer. Mr. Washburne has known that I wished to leave ever 
since I arrived, and why the deuce he don’t make an opportu- 
nity for me, passes my comprehension ; but it ’s always the way 
with these beggarly office-holders; as long as they get their 
money they don’t care what becomes of the unfortunate people 
they are paid to take care of. ’ ’ 

Colonel St. Evremond uttered a feeble remonstrance' against 
this wholesale condemnation of one who had made himself 
very popular with men of all nations, by his affability and un- 
wearying sympathy, in their fortunes during the siege, but Mr. 


o’er moor and fen. 267 

Von Decker was not to be moved from his opinion, and an- 
swered all the Colonel’s remarks with — 

“ Then why don’t he get me out of Paris, sir? That ’s what 
he’s here for.” 

They returned to the convent, and Elsie was comforted by 
her father’s assurances that he was not angry with her; never- 
theless, their usual pleasant intercourse was interrupted, for Mr. 
Von Decker was unable to shake off his depression, or allay his 
nervous desire to be gone. Again and again he reverted to the 
subject, until the Colonel’s patience was wellnigh exhausted. 

“ Parbleu! Monsieur,” he exclaimed, “your minister cannot 
drive away the King of Prussia ; why then do you complain of 
him? ” and rising he took his leave, feeling very sorry for the 
little girl he left behind him, who, he felt sure, would be com- 
pelled to listen to the same strain all the afternoon. But he 
was mistaken, for no sooner did the door close upon him 
than Mr. Von Decker also took his leave, a plan suddenly 
suggesting itself to him which he hastened to put into execu- 
tion. 

He would visit the various gates^of the city, and take a bird’s- 
eye view of the enemy from the ramparts, and thus learn for 
himself the extent of the danger he would run in attempting to 
pass through the lines. Hiring a fiacre , drawn by a poor, crazy- 
looking horse, so thin as to call for tears from the unfortunate 
man who might one day have to eat him, he sprang in and 
ordered the driver, who had been “manifesting” all the morn- 
ing, and was not altogether as sober as he should have been, to 
drive to the Arc de Triomphe. 

On they went at a snail’s pace, for at every opening which 
revealed the ramparts the patriotic charioteer checked his fiery 
steed, that he might shake his fist in the direction of the Prus- 
sians, and relieve his feelings by a few unctuous words. They 


268 


o’er moor and fen. 


did, however, reach their destination in the course of time, and 
hurriedly paying the double fare called for by the driver, for 
the frightful risk his noble animal had run from the Prussian 
needle-guns pointed at the opposite side of the city, Mr. Von 
Decker made his way to the Rue de l’lmperatrice, and at- 
tempted to reach the ramparts in that direction. This, how- 
ever, he found to be no easy matter, for between the Arc de 
Triomphe and the wall and moat which closed the avenue, were 
three barricades of masonry and earth, besides three ditches ; 
whilst every house was garrisoned, a number with Nationeaux , 
and some few with artillerymen. He was stopped at every 
turn and questioned as to his business, until he nearly lost his 
temper, and would not have been allowed upon the ramparts at 
all, had he not met with the officer who was selecting the 
patrol for the night, and who, being satisfied with the letters 
he produced, consented to his accompanying him on his duty. 

Along the top was a line of sentinels, and behind them 
guards and other patrols were continually passing, whilst at 
almost every step they were stopped and obliged to give the 
password, although the officer who accompanied him was well 
known. At one of the gates they paused, and Mr. Von Decker 
took advantage of the detention to look through the bars of 
his cage, and survey the country. The sight was not reassur- 
ing. Other patrols and guards were moving round the city out- 
side the walls as well as within, and on either side, as far as the 
eye could reach, were numerous regiments, some in tents, others 
lying upon the ground in the open air, although the nights 
were now becoming very chilly, and here and there and every- 
where were bayonets sparkling in the rays of the setting sun, as 
plenty as violets in May. 

Mr. Von Decker said nothing to his companion of the hopes 
which this walk had blasted, but returned to his own home as 


o’er moor and fen. 269 

soon as possible, a sadder and a wiser man, and was content 
for a few days more to take things as they were. Happy would 
it have been for them all had he continued in this equable 
frame of mind ; „but, before the week was out, his restless spirit 
was once more at work devising plans of escape, and this time 
no warning availed to save him from his fate, on which he 
rushed with the same dogged obstinacy which had characterized 
all the actions of his life. 

Mr. Washburne was again assailed by his irascible fellow 
countryman, and, being by this time extremely weary of his 
- importunities, he yielded to his wishes, and provided him with 
the necessary papers to enable him to pass the gates, warning 
him at the same time, however, that he could do nothing to 
protect him against the Prussian outposts. Mr. Yon Decker 
seized upon the precious papers with avidity, and declared them 
to be all that he wanted ; once out of Paris — once beyond 
those hated walls, he was convinced that his troubles would be 
over, and he was as confident of a safe passage through the 
enemy’s lines as though he were Frederick William’s intimate 
friend and boon companion. 

On his return to the convent, the coveted papers were shown 
to Elsie, under a promise of secrecy, and the plan of the route 
cautiously mapped out upon the checkered table-cloth for her 
edification, with as many starts and anxious glances over the 
shoulder as though they were two conspirators plotting for the 
fall of Paris. 

Very guilty did poor Elsie feel that evening when Colonel 
St. Evremond came in as usual to see if all was well with them, 
for she had been strictly forbidden by her father to even men- 
tion the subject to him, lest he should throw some obstacle in 
the way of their departure; and this guilty feeling increased 
more and more as the appointed day drew near, and she found 
23* 


270 


o’er moor and fen. 


that she must leave her kind friend, who, up to the last moment, 
was planning excursions to amuse her for weeks ahead, without 
a word of farewell, or a recognition of his many favors. 

And when the last evening came, and he rose as usual to 
take his leave, Elsie’s spirit rose in rebellion at the ungracious 
and ungrateful part her father had assigned her. She drew 
near to St. Evremond as he made his stately bow, and slipped 
her small hand in his, looking up, meanwhile, into his face with 
a troubled look, which seemed sadly out of place on her bright 
youthful countenance. 

“ What is it, Mademoiselle ?’ ’ he inquired, pressing the hand 
he held, and looking down at her with the benignant glance 
which we bestow upon a favored child when it would ask a 
favor of us ; and had Elsie been alone, she could not have re- 
sisted this invitation, but would assuredly have confided all to 
him, and thus, perhaps, saved the troubles which were gathering 
like heavy clouds about her; but Mr. Von Decker was present, 
and she dared not speak plainly, so she only answered, in a 
troubled voice: 

“ Nothing, Monsieur,” adding, after a moment’s pause, 
“Adieu!” 

“Pas 'adieu,' Mademoiselle,” said St. Evremond, smiling; 
“ c'est ‘ au revoir / ’ ” and he turned away, but as he crossed 
the threshold of the convent-door, the word, and the look 
which accompanied it, came back to him, like the last cadence 
of a sad song, and more than once during the evening, and the 
night following, he thought of and wondered at them. 

The next day, after having packed their necessary clothing 
into as small a space as possible, paid their month’s rent, and 
stowed away all the articles which they were obliged to leave 
behind them in trunks — sealed and directed, it is true, but 
which they scarcely dared hope to see again — they quietly 


o’er moor and fen. 


271 


passed out of the convent with a few brief words of explana- 
tion, and made their way to the American minister’s, where 
they found their carriage awaiting them. It was an open ba- 
rouche, drawn by a remarkably good-looking pair of horses, 
considering the rapidly increasing demand for the article, and 
American flags had been placed in every conceivable corner of 
the vehicle, not to speak of those decorating the animals’ 
heads. 

With the air of a prince, Mr. Von Decker followed his 
daughter into the carriage, in the midst of an admiring crowd, 
drawn together by the magnificent appearance of the travelling 
carriage, and the vague and mysterious reports as to the cause 
of these illustrious travellers’ departure. 

They bore letters from General Trochu, so it was said, 
wherein he demanded that the Germans should return at once 
to their own homes, in which case the French would magnani- 
mously forgive the past, and pursue them no farther than Alsace 
and Lorraine; so when everything was ready, and the carriage 
actually began to move, the enthusiastic mob shouted and 
cheered, and accompanied it some distance on its way, to the 
great detriment of both speed and comfort. 

Mr. Von Decker’s letters were to the commandant of the 
fort of Vanves, who was enjoined to forward the bearer, under 
a flag of truce, to the Prussian lines, and, as I have said, Mr. 
Von Decker was quite convinced that, thus far upon his journey, 
his papers and certificates would enable him to proceed farther 
without difficulty ; but whether or not this would have proved 
so, he never knew, for fate determined that he should not. 

At the gate through which they sought to leave the city they 
were challenged first, but their papers proving all correct upon 
inspection, they were allowed to pass without further molesta- 
tion, and with great pleasure soon found themselves bowling 
along through the open country. 


272 o’er moor and fen. 

Mr. Von Decker’s heart swelled with pride. He had ac- 
complished his purpose, and, despite the many difficulties in his 
path, was now en route for home, with his little daughter safe 
and well beside him. 

“ We will show them what American pluck can do,” he said, 
boastingly. “That fellow Washburne don’t know anything 
about his business. To think of his having refused us a safe- 
conduct all this time, and kept us caged up in that abominable 
city, when any day we might have done what we are doing 
now, riding into the enemy’s quarters in perfect security.” 

“ Halte, la!” 

0 

The words cam6 with crushing velocity apparently from the 
clouds, but on looking upward the occupants of the carriage 
perceived some half dozen men in the uniform of the garde 
mobile upon a low wall beside them, whose muskets were levelled 
at their heads. 

The coachman asked for no orders, but pulling his horses in, 
dropped his reins and leaped from the box, with every symp- 
tom of the wildest alarm. 

“Confound that idiot! ” exclaimed Mr. Von Decker, as he 
stood up, and, grasping the reins himself, turned to the soldiers 
and asked the reason of his detention. 

The men whispered together for a moment, and then told 
him in French that they had orders not to allow any one to pass 
that way, which communication Elsie interpreted to her father, 
upon which he produced his papers for their inspection ; but, 
contrary to their former experience, these invaluable documents 
proved here of no avail. 

It is a subject for speculation whether these men were really 
able to decipher them; but be that as it may, so far from being 
satisfied by their perusal, they seemed to become more sus- 
picious as they read, and ended at length by peremptorily 
ordering the travellers to return at once to the city. 


o’er moor and fen. 


273 


This was more than Mr. Von Decker was prepared for, and 
his indignation knew no bounds, at the thought of being turned 
back at this stage of his journey. He tried to reason with his 
captors, then offered them a bribe, but all was of no avail — they 
were resolute. He plead and threatened until, losing both 
temper and discretion, he determined to escape by flight, and, 
seizing a favorable opportunity, he suddenly lashed the horses 
with the whip. 

The plan was well conceived. The soldiers, taken off their 
guard, were dashed aside by the impetuous horses, as they sprang, 
forward obedient to the whip and voice, and for a moment it 
seemed as though success had crowned ' this daring effort. A 
scattering volley was sent after the rapidly retreating carriage, 
but, save for a single ball which crashed through the leather top, 
vehicle and occupants escaped unharmed. But though now 
safe from the rear, Mr. Von Decker had not thought of further 
danger in his front ; a more advanced guard hearing the fusi- 
lade, and seeing the fugitives bearing down upon them, 
making, apparently, for the Prussian lines, sprang to their feet, 
and poured a second volley into them as they flew by — this 
time, alas ! with deadly effect. The off-horse stumbled, reared, 
then fell heavily to the ground, dragging his companion 
with him, and John Roderic Von Decker, pierced by three 
Chassepot bullets, inclined suddenly forward, then sank back 
upon his seat without a moan, and passed the French and 
Prussian lines at last — alone. 

In a moment the soldiers were beside the carriage, and with 
a shriek of horror Elsie threw herself upon her father to protect 
his prostrate, senseless form from further violence. 

“Do not touch him,” she -cried, “he is my father; back! 
back ! and give him air. We are Americans on our way to the 
Fort of Vanves, and with a safe-conduct from General Trochu.” 

S 


274 


o’er moor and fen. 


The men looked at her with perplexed surprise, and then at 
one another. This explanation, rendered in good French, 
seemed clear and explicit, and they more than half repented 
their morning’s work. After a moment’s silence they asked to 
see the letter, and whilst they looked it over, Elsie endeavored 
to restore her father to consciousness. 

“ Ah, my God! my God! he is dead,” she cried, at last, 
with uncontrollable emotion, as all her efforts proved vain. 
‘‘Oh, papa darling, look up once more! Do not leave me 
here alone. Papa ! papa ! come back to me ! ” but the dead 
man neither moved nor spoke, and the garde looked oh, silent 
and helpless, at the misery caused by their over-zeal. 

It has been said by a writer of the present time, that the 
chief characteristic of the garde mobile during the siege of 
Paris, was their readiness to shoot first and make inquiry after- 
wards, but he adds that when they were convicted of a mistake, 
they were always ready to “ apologize io the corpse .” These men, , 
therefore, having done the mischief, were now quite ready to 
“apologize,” and politely returning Elsie’s letter, announced ! 
their readiness to allow her to depart in peace, if such were her 
wish. 

For a while they waited in silence for Elsie to express her 
wishes, but finding at length that she was incapable of acting 
for herself, they cut loose the dead horse, set the other, which 
was uninjured, upon his feet, and bade the driver, who had now 
appeared upon the scene, to proceed slowly towards Paris, whilst 
> a guard was detailed to accompany them and prevent further 
trouble. 

The procession moved. Slowly, drearily it went, dragging 
along like a funeral train. Elsie’s sobs grew faint and fainter, 1 
until they altogether ceased, and a dreamy sense of unreality 
stole over her as she sat dry-eyed and silent, supporting her 


o’er moor and fen. 


2 75 


father in her arms, neither knowing nor caring whither they 
were taking her. The jaunty little hat, donned that morning 
with* such care, had fallen from her head, and lay somewhere 
upon the roadside, and a tangled mass of golden curls fell un- 
restrained about her shoulders, whilst hair, and clothes, and 
delicate white skin were here and there stained crimson, by the 
life-blood flowing from her father’s heart. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


WHAT SHALL HE DO WITH HER? 


“ He is dead and gone, lady, 

He is dead and gone ; 

At his head a grass-green turf, 


At his heels a stone.” 


HILST these unfortunate events were transpiring, Col- 



vv onel St. Evremond was leisurely making his way to 
the convent, to pay his daily visit, and great was his conster- 
nation on learning from the sisters that Mr. Von Decker had 
actually left the city with his daughter. 

“ This day above all others!” he exclaimed, as he turned 
away from the gate; “ when the guard has been changed, and 
the rawest recruits we have are on duty,” and, full of forebod- 
ings, he hastened to the American minister’s to hear, if possible, 
the details of their route. 

All that Mr. Washburne could tell him, was the gate by 
which they intended to leave the city, and thither the Colonel 
posted in search of further news. He questioned the guard 


o’er moor and fen. 


276 

closely, but they either could not, or would not give,, him any 
information, and he was about turning back in despair, when 
the melancholy cortege appeared, wending its way towards the 
city. 

At first no one could ascertain exactly what it was, but, 
borrowing a field-glass, the Colonel soon discovered that his 
worst fears had been realized, and that the fugitives were return- 
ing in charge of the garde mobile. He looked long enough to 
see that only one over- wearied horse was attached to the car- 
riage, and returning the glass, he drew his horse up beside the 
gate and awaited in silence their approach. 

He thought he knew exactly what had happened — the guard 
had met them a few miles off, they had attempted flight, were 
turned back, and one of the horses had given out — and his only 
concern was how to liberate them from captivity ; his feelings, 
therefore, are more easily imagined than described, when, at his 
order, the carriage drew up beside him, and, on approaching it, 
he perceived the true state of the case. 

“ Mon Dieu /” he exclaimed, springing from his horse; 
“ what will these ruffians do next ? She is covered with blood. 
Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! are you hurt?” and in his 
eagerness he almost took her in his arms, but started back with 
horror as he suddenly perceived her lifeless burden. 

Elsie looked up at him, but there was no recognition in her 
eyes, and her face was white as a marble image. 

“You shall not touch him,” she murmured, mechanically, 
“he is my father. We are Americans on our way — ” The 
rest of the sentence became inaudible, and her head drooped 
once more over her father’s inanimate form. 

“ Pauvre enfant ,” said the Colonel, in a voice of suppressed 
emotion, and then resigning his horse to the care of an orderly, 
he entered the carriage and took his seat beside her, ordering 


o’er moor and fen. 


2 77 

the driver to move on as quickly as possible to the convent, 
and the guard to return to their post, which orders were at once 
obeyed, the Colonel’s rank and position being too well known 
to admit of their being disregarded. 

The rest of the way was accomplished very slowly, for, not- 
withstanding the driver’s efforts, the poor over-wearied horse 
could go no faster than a walk, and the crowd which quickly 
gathered also impeded their progress, so that it seemed to the 
Colonel as though they would never reach their destination. 
The long drive came to an end at last, however, and they drew 
up before the convent gates, from whence poor Mr. Von Decker 
had stepped forth in such confidence and pride some few hours 
before, never dreaming that his farewell was not, to Paris, but 
to life. 

At the sound of the bell the portress opened the gate, and 
her cry of alarm soon brought the sisters flocking to see what 
had occurred. Elsie, yielding to their persuasions and assur- 
ances that she should not be called upon to leave her father, 
suffered them to lead her into the house, whither they also had 
him carried, but before she had crossed the threshold her senses 
seemed to leave her, and she walked on mechanically like a 
somnambulist, offering no resistance and speaking no word. 

They placed Mr. Von Decker upon a sofa, and she stood 
quietly beside him, with her eyes fixed upon his rigid face and 
form, seemingly oblivious that anything extraordinary had 
occurred. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said the Colonel, in a gentle, compassionate 
voice, “do not grieve too deeply. You have lost a friend and 
protector, it is true, but in me you shall find another; you have 
not said adieu to all,” and he took her hand tenderly within 
his own. 

She raised her dull eyes to his for a moment, and then let 
24 


o’er moor and fen. 


278 

them fall again upon her father, whilst confused memories 
seemed jostling each other in her brain. 

“ Pas adieu" she said, at length, a dim recollection of their 
last conversation coming over her; “ d est au revoir ,” and then 
clasping her head in her hands she staggered, and fell forward 
upon her father’s body. 

“I will carry her to her room at once,” said the Colonel to 
Sister Marie Louise, who was in attendance; “it will be better 
for her to recover her senses away from her father ; the shock 
will be less,” and, lifting her in his arms, he followed the good 
sister along the corridor and up the stairs, pausing only to lay 
his precious burden down upon the bed in the small room 
which had been hers ever since she had taken refuge within the 
convent walls. 

“You can leave her to me now,” said the sister, as he stood 
irresolutely at the foot of the bed. “I will take good care of 
her, and, if necessary, will send for you when she recovers. She 
will be better if left alone in her first burst of grief. I have 
suffered, and I know this to be so.” 

With perfect confidence in Sister Marie Louise’s experience, 
and remembering how much there was to be done below stairs, 
Colonel St. Evremond left the room as desired, and proceeded 
to the American minister’s to inform him of what had taken 
place. 

On his return he was informed that Elsie was still uncon- 
scious, and that Sister Marie Louise desired a physician should 
be sent for, as she was becoming alarmed at her patient’s long- 
continued swoon. 

St. Evremond at once dispatched a messenger for a physician, 
and went himself to Elsie's room, where he found her lying 
.just as he had left her, with half-closed eyes and parted lips, 
from between which, however, he detected, on close observation, 
a faint, irregular breathing. 


o’er moor and fen. 


279 


“ This is not a swoon,” he said, decidedly, “it is more like a 
stupor.” And such it proved to be. It lasted for two or three 
days, and then only gave way to fever and delirium, which were 
equally alarming in their turn. 

The days passed into weeks, and still the fever did not abate. 
Sister Marie Louise was devoted in her attendance, the Colonel 
unremitting in his attentions, but Elsie, unconscious of all 
around her, was living in a world of her own, and repeating, 
with every possible variation, the horrible tragedy in which she 
had played so sad a part. 

It was touching to hear her supplications for her father’s life, 
her adjurations to the guard to let them pass, and it was terrible 
to listen to her anguish, her mad cries of despair when she 
dreamed that she had failed, and thought she stood once more 
beside his bleeding corpse. 

The Colonel was perplexed beyond measure as to what he 
should do with the poor child in case of her recovery, or how 
he could communicate with her friends were she to die, for he 
had no clue to their whereabouts, save the casual observations 
which Elsie had let fall, in conversing about her home and 
family. 

Mr. Von Decker’s remains were placed in the convent vault, 
in a metallic case, according to the instructions of the American 
minister, who duly recorded, in the archives of the mission, his 
name and the date of his death, with all the circumstances 
attending the same. 

Mr. Washburne being equally ignorant with St. Evremond 
as to the precise locality of the deceased’s residence in America, 
could offer no advice to Elsie’s self-appointed guardian on the 
subject of communicating with her friends, but promised to 
mention the fact of Mr. Von Decker’s death in his next 
dispatches, although he could give .no idea as to when these 


280 


o’er moor and fen. 


would probably get off. Owing to the uncertainty of the 
mails, they might remain in the city for a month to come, but 
it was the best that the minister could do for him, so St. Evre- 
mond resigned himself to circumstances, passing all the time 
he could spare from his duties, at the convent, awaiting the 
change for better or worse which must soon take place in his 
ward’s condition. 

Elsie did not die. The struggle was long and hard, but 
youthful vigor conquered in the end, and she languished back 
to life. Wearily, feebly she opened her eyes upon a world on 
which the sun, for her, had set, and the future appeared 
shrouded in impenetrable gloom, as by degrees she realized 
her sad position. 

When she lost Roy, it had seemed to her that happiness was 
at an end, but hope renewed itself within her heart when she 
was once more at her father’s side, and she had felt that life 
might still be rendered tolerable by his tender love and care. * 
But now ? Alas ! there was nothing to look forward to. 

If she had before disliked the idea of returning home to be 
a daily witness of another’s happiness, the thought of it was 
now intolerable, without that kind father’s supporting presence 
which had been her only solace. Her strength slowly returned, 
but the vivacity of youth seemed to have forsaken her forever. 
Her buoyant spirit seemed to have deserted her, and in its 
place was a quiet languor, which manifested itself in her slow 
movements and listless air, contrasting strongly with her former 
restlessness and unvarying liveliness. 

Good Sister Marie Louise tried .hard to awaken in her some 
interest in life, to make her talk of home, her mother, brothers 
and sister, but she was strangely reticent on these subjects, and 
refused all overtures towards confidence, completely confound- 
ing her friend by her apparent heartlessness and indifference 


o’er moor and fen. 


281 


towards those still left her by a merciful Providence, and in 
whom she should have found her happiness. 

“Do not commiserate me,” she said one day, as the sister 
spoke sympathizingly of her isolation. “I am as happy here 
as I shall ever be in this world, and I have no wish to leave 
these walls, were the way open to me.” And this speech was 
duly reported to the Colonel by the sorely perplexed sister, 
with an anxious question as to what was to become of this 
strange girl, who seemed to have no human ties of sufficient 
strength to draw her from her father’s grave. 

St. Evremond had asked himself this question every day 
since Elsie’s recovery had been assured, but now, when the 
sister appealed to him, he was no nearer an answer than at 
first. 

“ Can she not remain where she is? ” he asked. “ Here, at 
least, she is safe.” 

“Safe just at present,” replied the sister, “but, ah, for how 
long may our home be unviolated ? Do you not know that we 
have already been called upon to receive the wounded ? And 
when our house becomes a hospital, will it, think you, be an 
asylum in which a young and handsome girl should seek a 
refuge ? Alas, no. You and I know Jeune France too well to 
dream of it.” 

“You are right,” said St. Evremond; “it would not do to 
leave her here unprotected by name or rank. I must see the 
child at once, and arrange her future plans. Will you announce 
me to her?” And Sister Marie Louise hastened to do his 
bidding, rejoiced at having at last aroused him to a sense of his 
responsibility. 

Elsie received his summons with her usual apathetic indif- 
ference, and entered the salon so quietly, that it was some 
moments before the Colonel became aware of her presence. 


24 


282 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ Did you wish to see me ? ” she asked, at length, seeing that 
her entrance was unnoticed, and, starting from a reverie, he 
turned quickly in the direction of the sweet, low-modulated 
voice. 

He hastily apologized for his inattention, and took a step 
forward, intending to lead her to a seat, but there he paused, 
and, as his eye fell upon her, a mingled feeling of pity and 
respect seemed to keep him rooted to the spot. 

This was not the merry child he had formerly known during 
her father’s lifetime, neither was it the little girl he had borne 
in his arms along the corridor on the day she was first taken 
ill. No ; as hair will sometimes whiten in a night, so these 
weeks of anguish had made a woman of Elsie. 

The golden hair was drawn plainly back from her low, broad 
forehead, and lay in coils upon her shapely head. The face 
was colorless, and beneath the hazel eyes were those dark lines 
painted only by sickness and distress; and her form, grown 
much slighter since he had last seen her, was draped in deep 
mourning, which added still more to the sombre effect of the 
touts ensemble , and gave her girlish figure a dignity and stately 
grace which had until now been a stranger to it. 

St. Evremond was unprepared for this great change, and, for 
the moment, could scarcely collect his scattered senses. 

“Mademoiselle,” he said at last, “will you sit down fora 
few moments? I have something important to say to you.” 

She seated herself without a word in the nearest chair, and 
regarded him with her usual impassive glance, apparently 
awaiting what lie had to say more through compulsion than 
through interest. . % 

He took two or three turns up and down the room to recover 
himself, and then pausing before her began abruptly : 

“ Sister Marie Louise has been speaking of you to me, my 


o’er moor and fen. 


283 


child, and she says that you have given her no idea of your 
wishes in regard to the future, and that, owing to the troubled 
condition of the times, it is necessary that I should make some 
provision for your comfort and safety, in case the government 
should turn the convent into a hospital. Will you, then, kindly 
give me the address of your friends, that I may communicate 
with them without loss of time? ” 

“I can give you my mother’s address,” said Elsie, in slow, 
measured tones, “but I do not see of what use it will be to 
write to her just now, for she cannot assist me, nor even send 
any one to my relief. I have but one brother who is old 
enough to travel so far, and as he is now the sole protector of 
the family, it is far better that he should not risk his life in an 
attempt to reach me.” 

“ What then will you do, Mademoiselle? ” asked the Colonel, 
looking very much puzzled. 

“I will remain where I am, Monsieur,” she replied, “until 
this horrible siege is over ; and then, if I am still alive, it will 
be time enough to write for my friends.” 

“ But you do not understand,” said the Colonel ; “ this place 
will be no better than a barrack full of soldiers, and the sisters 
will have no time to spare from their nursing to care for you.” 

“I do not wish them to care for me,” replied Elsie, calmly; 
“I can take care of myself; besides, I intend to assist them in 
their labors — I shall be a nurse myself. ’ ’ 

“Alas! Mademoiselle, that cannot be,” said St. Evremond; 
“you are too young, and — forgive me — too beautiful to take 
upon yourself such a task. The nuns and the married ladies 
divide these duties between them, and you have neither a hus- 
band nor a long veil.” 

He said the last words playfully, trusting to bring forth one 
of her old rippling smiles, but he failed in his purpose, for she 




284 


o’er moor and fen. 


sat as grave and still as before, clasping her hands tightly 
together and saying : 

“ Too young? Oh, no ; I have grown very old these last few 
weeks. Too beautiful ? that is easily remedied. Let them cut 
my hair and shroud me in the nun’s black veil and none will 
know what I have been.” 

“But you cannot take the black veil, my child, unless you 
bind yourself for life by solemn vows, which will separate you 
forever from all you love,” said St. Evremond, gravely. 

“I am well aware of that,” replied Elsie, “ and yet I wish to 
do it. Listen,” she said, rising and approaching him with 
more show of emotion than he had seen in her since the begin- 
ning of the interview, “ my life is over. There is nothing now 
to take me home — my closest earthly tie is the grave within 
these walls, and here would I live and die.” 

“ But the novitiate,” said St. Evremond, in a bewildered tone. 
“You must be a novice first, Mademoiselle; you cannot take 
the black veil at once, even if I could persuade myself that it 
was right to allow you to do so.” 

“I have no one but myself to consult,” she replied; “no 
one else has a right to regulate my actions here. It is my irrev- 
ocable determination, Monsieur, to become a nun, and I beg 
that you will use your best endeavors to make it feasible for me 
to take the vows at once. I absolutely forbid your communi- 
cating with my brother,” she continued, hastily, “for I will 
have no more lives lost in my service. Adieu,” and turning, 
she passed out of the room as silently as she had come, leaving 
St. Evremond almost beside himself with anxiety and distress 
of mind. 


o’er moor and fen. 


285 


CHAPTER. IX. 


A DESPERATE REMEDY. 


** Beware of desperate steps, the darkest day, 
Live till to-morrow will have passed away.” 



OLONEL ST. EVREMOND left the convent more anx- 


ious and perplexed than when he entered. He had seen 
enough of Elsie to know that, having once formed a resolution, 
nothing short of absolute authority could make her abandon it, 
and yet it seemed heartless to stand by inactive whilst this 
child, yielding to an impulse born of grief, sacrificed all her 
hopes of happiness in this world. 

He could see no help for it, however, and therefore, obedient 
to her instructions, he sought another sisterhood, less strict in 
their rules than the nuns among whom Elsie now lived, and, 
presenting the case to the superior, asked whether or not the 
novitiate could be dispensed with and the young applicant be 
at once permitted to take the final vows, stating frankly, how- 
ever, that her request had been already refused by another 
order. , 

The superior took the subject into consideration, promised to 
use her best endeavors to arrange the matter, and then dismissed 
St. Evremond, telling him to call again in three days and she 
would give her answer. 

These three days dragged heavily for Elsie. She could set- 
tle to no occupation — even reading seemed to pall upon her. 
Sister Louise chid her gently for her restlessness. “ My child,” 
she said, “is it thus you prepare yourself to become the be- 
trothed of Christ ? ’ ’ 


286 


o’er moor and fen. 


Elsie blushed and hid her face on the kind sister’s shoulder. 

/‘Bear with me,” she said, in a low voice; “when I have 
taken the vows I shall be at peace.” 

“Alas! my child,” said the sister, folding her arms around 
her tenderly, “vows alone will not give peace to a troubled 
heart. ’ ’ 

The third day came, but it was not until the evening that 
St. Evremond appeared. Elsie’s impatience knew no bounds. 
She had been anxiously awaiting him since early morning, and* 
as his footfall was heard upon the paved court-yard, she started 
impulsively from her seat to run and meet him. 

“ Stop ! ” said a clear, low voice, and a detaining hand was 
laid upon her shoulder by the mother superior, whilst a pair of 
penetrating eyes looked down upon her with a keen, searching 
gaze. 

“Why this impatience?” she continued, gravely. “Rash 
child, you are rushing on your fate. You have no vocation for 
the lot you covet — your education, habits, tastes, are all against 
it. Beware how you thrust yourself among the Lord’s anointed 
without a wedding garment. Go to the chapel, kneel before 
the picture of your crucified Saviour, and search well your 
inmost soul for the motive of your wish to take the vows. See 
whether it is your overweening love for Him — your yearning 
desire to yield Him up a pure young life that influences you, or 
rebellion at the burden of grief which He has put upon you, and 
a cowardly shrinking from the duties He has seen fit to impose 
upon you in the outer world. Go.” 

With bowed head and faltering step, Elsie retired to the 
chapel, and, making her way to the crucifix upon the altar, 
she fell upon her knees, overcome by the violence of her emo- 
tion. Too surely did she know that the mother had spoken 
but the truth. She needed no self-examination to prove that 


o’er moor and fen. 287 

her chief desire had been to put an impassable barrier between 
herself and Roy, that they might never meet again. 

She raised her eyes to the figure on the cross, and a deep 
sense of shame came over her. Oh, how small did her trivial 
griefs appear in comparison with the agony pictured there ; how 
cowardly her effort to escape her trials, in His sight, who had 
“suffered all things,” of His own free will, for her. 

Once more she buried her face in her hands. She had said 
her prayers — the little formula taught her in the nursery — every 
night and morning since she could remember; but now, for 
the first time, her over-charged heart found words for itself, and 
a supplicating, wailing cry for help went up to heaven. 

Steps came along the corridor ; she heeded them not. The 
chapel door swung back, — still she did not move* — and St. 
Evremond entered, with a slow, cautious tread, fearing to dis- 
turb her devotions. 

The moments flew by. Silently he approached and stood 
beside her, with folded arms and bowed head, scarcely less de- 
votional than herself. 

“ No, I must not be a nun ! ” she exclaimed, at length, start- 
ing to her feet. And then perceiving who her companion was, 
she suddenly relapsed into silence, and stood, confused and 
motionless, before him. 

“I am glad to hear you say that, Mademoiselle,” he said, 
gently, “for it makes my task all the easier. I am here from 

the convent of L , to tell you that, after much consideration 

and prayer, the superior thinks best to refuse your request, and 
insist upon the full novitiate before she can admit you to the 
sisterhood.” 

“It is as well,” replied Elsie, “for I had just decided that 
I was not worthy to take my place among those saintly women. 
I have been deceiving myself, Colonel St. Evremond,” she 


288 


o’er moor and fen. 


continued, hastily, feeling a necessity of confessing to some 
one, “and it was not religious devotion which influenced me 
in my choice, but a distaste to life and its duties, — a mad 
desire to separate myself forever from my home and friends.” 

“And have your feelings changed? ” inquired St. Evremond, 
gazing at her in bewilderment. “ Has nature asserted itself at 
last — are you pining now for your native land ? ’ * 

“ Changed ? ” echoed Elsie, in a melancholy tone. “ Alas ! 
no. The heart cannot rid itself of sinful murmurings in a few 
brief moments. No, Colonel St. Evremond, I am not ‘ pining 
for my native land ; ’ but you tell me that I can no longer 
claim the shelter of the convent unless I am enrolled among 
the sisterhood, which cannot be. What is left me, therefore, 
but to take up my burden and pass onward towards the trials 
which await me across the water.” 

“I know nothing of your home, Mademoiselle,” said St. 
Evremond, “nor can I guess for what reason you should shun 
it; but I know full well the dangers to be encountered by the 
way, and I cannot seriously advise you to attempt, just now, 
the journey.” 

“ Oh, gracious heaven!” cried Elsie, clasping her hands, 
and turning a piteous gaze upon St. Evremond. “ What, then, 
is to become of me? You tell me first I cannot stay, and 
then again I must not go. Is there no place for me anywhere 
in the world? Why, oh, why, did not God take me with my 
father ? ’ ’ And she threw herself upon the velvet cushion, on 
which she had been kneeling, in a passion of tears. 

“Do not weep, mon enfant ,” said St. Evremond, in a voice 
full of feeling; “your case is not so hopeless. I would not 
have spoken thus, were there not another means of rescue from 
your difficulties still open to us. Will you dry your tears and 
listen to me for a moment? ” 


o’er moor and fen. 


289 

Taking courage from his tone and words, Elsie wiped her 
eyes and looked up. St. Evremond was still standing, leaning 
lightly against the altar-rails, and his dark gray eyes met hers 
with a calm, tranquil gaze, which gave her a sense of rest, a 
consciousness of sure protection, whatever might befall. 

He smiled in answer to her eager, questioning look, and 
said : 

“ I am no conjurer ; I cannot spirit you away unseen, nor can 
I lay the foe to rest, drugged by a potent spell, until you dtave 
passed the lines ; but perhaps I may make your life here tolera- 
ble, even though the siege continue longer than we now expect. 
I can at all events save you from the necessity of returning 
home, which you seem to dread so much, and also from the 
insults of a distraught mob, should you remain in Paris. Will 
you listen patiently and try to understand me, Mademoiselle ? ’ ’ 

Elsie eagerly signified her assent, and St. Evremond, after a 
moment’s pause, in which to collect his thoughts, continued: 

“ I am a soldier, Mademoiselle, and have lived a soldier’s life; 
| and, being unused to courtly language, I feel that I can scarcely 
J attune my tale to a young girl’s ear ; but you must be gracious 
1 and forgive me if I weary you, and remember that in all I say 
i I have your interest most at heart. You are alone, defenceless, 
in a foreign land ; this only gives me courage to make you an 
| extraordinary offer — you need protection — I can give it to 
I you. You need position, a name to guard you against insult — 
- I can give it to you. Mademoiselle, will you be my wife? ” 

He ceased. Elsie gave him one startled, incredulous look, 
and then hid her face in her hands, whilst burning blushes 
tinged her throat and ears, which were all that St. Evremond 
could see of her. 

She could scarcely believe that she had heard aright, so 
totally unexpected was his proposal, and as she compared the 

25 T 


290 


o’er moor and fen. 


life he offered her with that which her fancy had once painted, 
her heart beat and her pulses throbbed almost to suffocation. 

4 4 Roy ! Roy ! ” she cried within her heart, “ how could any 
one presume to take the place you left vacant?” and her soul 
rose in rebellion at the thought of accepting another’s love. 

“Oh, do not speak to me of marriage,” she exclaimed, 
passionately. “My heart is cold and dead — what have I to 
do with love? ” 

“I asked you, Mademoiselle, to try and understand me,” 
said St. Evremond, gravely; “but as you have failed to do so, 
let me explain myself more fully. I did not speak to you of 
love. Nay, I repeat to you your own words, — ‘ What have I 
to do with love ? ’ A man more than twice your age, oppressed 
by the cares of maturer years, weighed down by his country’s 
peril — Mademoiselle, I ask again, what have I to do with 
love? ” 

Silence ensued, a deep silence, broken only by Elsie’s con- 
vulsive breathing and short gasping sobs. St. Evremond left 
his place at the altar-rails, and approaching nearer, kneeled 
beside her on the cushion. 

“ See, now, my child,” he said, gently, “how needlessly you 
are afflicting yourself. I never asked you for your heart, for I 
have long believed it given elsewhere ; but your distress of 
mind led me to suppose that your love was hopeless, and thus 
I have offered you an alternative to returning home, until time 
has softened your sufferings. 

“You would have taken the veil to avoid this return, and 
the vows I ask of you are no more binding. Indeed, they are 
less so, for at the convent your servitude would only end with 
your life, whilst in this case my death will be your freedom. 

“It is not a common marriage I propose, Mademoiselle. I 
would not ask you to link your young life with mine, — it is 


o’er moor and fen. 


291 


but an agreement, a pact between us, that you shall take my 
name as a shelter from the storm now raging round you, and 
hide behind it until the clouds lighten and the sun of peace 
shines out.” 

“Roy! Roy!” moaned Elsie, softly; and she clasped her 
hands tightly over her heart, whilst her eyes once more sought 
the crucifix. 

“ Your bondage will not be long,” said St. Evremond, depre- 
catingly. “I am no longer young, and even should the Prus- 
sian bullets spare me, it is unlikely that I shall survive the suf- 
fering and hardships of the siege ; and, in case of my death, 
you will be amply provided for, and enabled to remain in 
France, an independent woman, for the residue of your life.” 

“ I dare not marry you in the hope that you may die,” said 
Elsie, shudderingly ; “ that would be but a poor return for all 
your goodness.” 

“Do not think of me, Mademoiselle,” said St. Evremond, 
in a deep, tender voice; “think only of yourself. My life is 
over, yours but just begun ; and if you feel that my proposition 
can in a measure relieve you from your difficulties, do not hesi- 
tate for a moment to accept it.” 

“But — but, if we should both survive the siege,” faltered 
Elsie, “what then — oh, what then? Could you be content 
with a wife who was but one in name, who had taken advan- 
tage of your generosity, and bound you to her side for her own 
protection from — from her love for another? There, now, 
you know all. My whole heart is given to one who does not 
love me — to one who will never wed me — and I have but one 
desire left in life, which is never, never, never to see him again ; 
and I would take any vow which would shut me out from him 
forever, save that which commanded me to love another. Ah, 
that I cannot do.” 


292 


o’er moor and fen. 


“Is there no hope?” asked St. Evremond. “Do not de- 
ceive me, Mademoiselle, for deception now, may be irreparable 
ruin in the future.” 

“There is none,” replied Elsie, in a tone which brought 
conviction to St. Evremond’s heart. 

“Then hesitate no longer, Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, 
“ but tell me at once that you will be my wife. I ask nothing 
of you but to be your guardian and protector, and I swear to 
you, by Him in whose presence we now are, never to take ad- 
vantage of the power with which you invest me, or claim au- 
thority over any of your actions, but, devoting myself to your 
interests, to promote your comfort and happiness, even at the 
cost of my own, until God shall call me from my post.” 

He ceased speaking, and listened anxiously for her response ; 
but for a few moments Elsie could say nothing, so overcome 
was she by the magnanimity of the man beside her. 

Mistaking her silence, St. Evremond rose slowly to his feet, 
saying : 

“ I see, Mademoiselle, that your case is not so hopeless as you 
at first pronounced it, and that you cannot make up your mind 
to put a barrier between yourself and the past, and, no doubt, 
you are in the right. Consider what I have said, therefore, as 
unsaid, and I will go at once to Mr. Washburne’s and place 
you under his protection. Dieu vous benisse. * * And he placed 
his hand tenderly in blessing on her head ere he turned to 
leave her. 

Aroused by his words and the touch of his hand, Elsie raised 
her head and looked up at him, with an earnest, trusting ex- 
pression in her large eyes. 

“ Forgive me,” she said, “ if I have seemed ungrateful. You 
have misunderstood my silence. v It was not of myself that I 
was thinking, but of you. I could not bear to accept your 


o’er moor and fen. 


293 


sacrifice, and fetter you for life with a helpless burden; but if, 
as you say, you do not shrink from it, and will not expect from 
me that which I cannot give, then, Monsieur, I accept your 
generous offer — I will be your wife. And,” she continued, 
rising and approaching the crucifix, “ as you have sworn to 
make my happiness your first consideration, so I now swear to 
make your honor mine. Though living my life apart from 
yours, — perchance in another land, — it shall be my constant 
purpose to preserve, pure and free from blemish, the proud 
name you give to shelter a poor, friendless girl.” 

“Mademoiselle, I thank you,” said St. Evremond, deeply 
moved. “Believe me, your trust is not misplaced — you shall 
never regret this day,” and raising her hand respectfully to his 
lips, he turned and left her, feeling instinctively that she would 
rather be alone, now that she had pledged her life to him, to 
reconcile herself to her fate, and as his footsteps died away she 
threw herself once more upon her knees, and wrestled with her 
grief. 


CHAPTER X. 

WHAT THEY THOUGHT OF IT. 

“ ’T is strange, but true ; for truth is always strange — 
Stranger than fiction.” 


I NEVER was so surprised in my life,” said Maude. 

“It is incomprehensible,” replied Maude’s mother. 
“You might knock me down with a feather,” said Master 
Jack, and the little boys said nothing, being too stupefied to 
speak. 

25 * 


294 


o’er moor and fen. 


They were seated around the breakfast-table in a handsome 
house in Fifth Avenue, and Eleanor Marston, who was visiting 
them, glanced from one to the other as she entered the room, 
as much puzzled by their agitated countenances as by their 
enigmatical words. 

“ What has happened? ” she ventured to ask, at length, see- 
ing that her presence was unnoticed, and then, as they per- 
ceived her for the first time, the flood-gates opened and they 
all spoke at once : 

“Married, my dear, actually married,” said Maude. 

“Sacrificed,” moaned Mrs. Von Decker; “immolated upon 
the altar of — ’ ’ 

“A beggarly Frenchman,” shouted Jack; “that is what I 
cannot understand.” 

“Who is ‘married’ and ‘sacrificed on the altar of’ ‘a beg- 
garly Frenchman?’” said Nellie, laughing; “pray be more 
explicit, good people.” 

Seeing that she was still ignorant, and each member of the 
family being desirous to be the first to impart the wonderful 
news, they all cried “Elsie!” in a breath, and Eleanor, as 
much overwhelmed by the information as they could desire, 
sank speechless into her seat, and mutely regarded the untasted 
breakfast, as though it could solve the enigma for her. Her 
thoughts fled quickly to Roy and his probable distress, and with 
a slight shudder she exclaimed, at length : 

“Are you quite sure that this is true? may you not be mis- 
taken ? ’ ’ 

“ Here is our -authority,” said Jack, holding up an open let- 
ter; “here is the information in her own handwriting, and over 
her own signature.” 

“ What does she say?” said Nellie. 

“ Not much,” replied Jack, “ the missive is short and sweet ; 


o’er moor and fen. 


295 


she supposes we will be surprised to hear that she has married 
a Colonel something or* other. She may never see any of us 
again, but she hopes we will all be happy and prosperous, and 
she is our ‘affectionate daughter and sister, Elsie St. Evre- 
mond,’ that is the name,” continued Jack, reading from the 
letter. 

“St. Evremond !” exclaimed Nellie. “I never heard any- 
thing so remarkable. He is old enough to be her father.” 

“ What do you know of him? ” they all exclaimed, eager for 
every scrap of information in regard to this new member of 
their family, who had entered it so suddenly and unannounced. 

“She has often mentioned him in her letters,” said Nellie, 
“ but always as an elderly man. Don’t you remember, Maude? 
He is Julie’s chere oncle .” 

“True,” said Maude; “I had forgotten that circumstance, 
but it does not make her marriage any the less mysterious.” 

“And it is so strange that she never mentions her father’s 
name,” said Mrs. Von Decker, “nor has he written a line of 
explanation to me, although I think I might reasonably have 
expected to be consulted in so grave a matter as my daughter’s 
marriage. ” ^ 

“It is certainly very strange,” said Eleanor, musingly, and 
her thoughts- reverted to Roy, whilst a feeling of tender pity 
for him filled her heart. What would he say when he learned 
that Elsie had given herself to another — that all his dreams of 
happiness were forever dissipated ? And then she remembered 
that she was to meet him that evening at a reception, and she 
trembled lest the duty of breaking the sad news to him should 
devolve upon herself, and began to .search hurriedly for some 
excuse, by which she might induce her friends to go without her. 

But her anxiety was causeless, for even as she thought of him, 
she heard his voice below, in the hall, and his footstep on the 
stair. 


o’er moor and fen. 


296 

Her heart beat rapidly. She pressed her hands over it to 
still its pulsations, and tried to retain her composure ; but as 
he approached, she found herself unequal to the effort of sit- 
ting by, unmoved, whilst Maude dealt a death-blow to all his 
hopes, so, just as he placed his foot on the topmost step, Nellie 
suddenly stood before him, pale and agitated. She fixed her 
eyes upon him, with a tender pity beaming from them, which 
filled the young man with wonder and surprise. 

“Be prepared,” she said, softly, inclining slightly towards 
him, “ there is bad news awaiting you yonder. The Paris des- 
patches have arrived.” And then she fled, precipitately, up the 
stairs, and sought the seclusion of her own room, where she 
wept bitterly over Roy’s disappointment. As I have before 
said, there is no accounting for women’s tears. 

The young man, on his part, walked' boldly forward to meet 
his fate, and, although he comprehended but in part what Elea- 
nor had said to him, he was on his guard when he entered the 
breakfast-room, and enabled thereby to perform his part much 
better, than if the news had come upon him without any prepa- 
ration. 

A momentary fear lest some accident had befallen Elsie, was 
quickly relieved by Maude’s first words to him. 

“Well, Roy,” she said, triumphantly, “I think you need 
give yourself no further uneasiness in regard to Elsie. I do 
not think either Jack or yourself will be welcomed, if you un- 
dertake a pilgrimage to Paris to bring her home.” 

“What has occurred?” asked Roy, endeavoring to be per- 
fectly calm. “ Has she become too fond of her studies to be 
induced to leave them off, even in face of the Prussian needle- 
guns? ” 

“ Not exactly,” replied Maude ; “but she thought it best to 
have a protector at hand during the French troubles, so she has 
married the Colonel of one of the French regiments.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


297 


“ Not that any immediate danger threatened her,” said Jack, 
“but, according to Mrs. Toodles’ notions, there might be 
trouble, my dear, and then it would be so handy to have him 
in the house.” 

“ Jack ! ” said Mrs. Von Decker, reprovingly, “ how can you 
speak so lightly of an event which so nearly concerns your sis- 
ter’s happiness ? Believe me, matrimony is too serious a subject 
to be spoken of laughingly.” 

“ I agree with you entirely, mother,” said Jack, “and I can 
safely promise you that after I am married I will never smile 
again.” 

“You had better begin to practise gravity at once, then,” 
said Maude, “ for it will not be an easy science for you to 
learn.” 

“ I beg your pardon, but you are mistaken,” said Jack, affa- 
bly. * “ The mere consciousness that I was tied for life, to some 
estimable and irreproachable young woman like yourself, would 
be sufficient in itself to banish joy forever from my heart.” 

This little skirmish was of great service to Roy, inasmuch as 
it gave him time to recover himself, and in his heart he blessed 
Eleanor for her few words of warning, as with a “bold front 
he faced the music ’ ’ and quietly discussed the strange news. 

For a little while he sat with them thus, and then took his 
leave, as placidly as though no unwelcome intelligence had 
been given him, so that Maude, who had jealously watched his 
countenance, felt ashamed of her suspicions, and said to him, 
in a cordial tone, which had been out of use for some time in 
her intercourse with her cousin : 

“ I suppose it would be of no use to ask you to stay with us 
any longer this morning, as you are on your way to the office ; 
but we shall see you this evening, shall we not? and then I 
shall have a great deal to say to you.” 


298 


o’er moor and fen. 


“Oh, certainly, I will be with you this evening,” replied 
Roy, scarcely heeding what he said in his anxiety to be off ; 
and then, pressing her hand, he hastened away, not daring to 
trust himself further. 

Once more alone he hurried along the street, scarcely con- 
scious of where he was going, but still retaining his outward 
composure, and returning smilingly the salutations of his 
friends. His one object was to escape notice, and his chief 
fear, lest the world should learn his disappointment. His pride 
revolted at the thought that he might become an object of pity 
to the unsympathizing crowd, and he mentally resolved that 
whatever he might suffer, he would give no outward sign. 

He was not really suffering then — the blow had been too 
sudden. As the spring of a tiger on his prey deadens the 
victim’s sensibility, and, stupefied and bewildered, he loses 
even the sense of fear, so his heart seemed suddenly paralyzed, 
and he only comprehended vaguely what had occurred. He 
told himself over and over that Elsie had proved false, but he 
could not make himself believe it. He thought of the letter 
he had just seen, signed with her married name, but another 
letter would recur to his mind, one full of love and trust in 
him, every word of which was engraven on his heart. Unlike 
Arthur Leighton, he did not for a moment succumb to fate. 
He went to his work with undiminished zeal, and passed the 
day in minute examination of his uncle’s affairs. “It is more 
than ever necessary that the bank account should stand well,” 
he said to himself; “ these foreigners all marry for money, and 
as long as Elsie’s holds out her husband will probably treat her 
well ” 

Towards evening he became restless, and a feverish desire to 
prove his strength induced him to keep his promise to Maude, 
ud go to the reception, so he dined at his club, and then 


o’er moor and fen. 


299 

dressing himself with extra care, presented himself at the house 
just as the Fifth Avenue party were ready to start. 

“ I thought I would go with you,” he said, as he helped them 
into the carriage ; “it is so difficult to find any one at a crowded 
reception,” and then he took the vacant seat beside Eleanor, 
and the carriage rolled away. 

Maude was in a state of triumphant delight. Elsie was 
married, Roy was free, and he had borne the news so well that 
she was quite convinced of the fact that Annida was right when 
she said that he cared for her, Maude, and was but trifling with 
Elsie. She talked on unremittingly during the drive, so that 
no one noticed Eleanor’s taciturnity save Roy himself, who 
caught a glimpse now and then of her scared, white face, and 
divined her thoughts in regard to him. 

“Why is she so troubled?” he asked himself, and then the 
scene upon the rocks came into his mind, and he once more 
wondered whether it was possible that this girl loved him. 
Wounded, sore, his pride touched to the quick, the thought 
that this might be so gave him pleasure, and he inwardly de- 
termined that before the night was over he would prove whether 
he was right or wrong in his supposition. 

The rooms were crowded, and, after they had spoken to the 
hostess, our party soon lost sight of one another, so that it 
was some time before Roy again encountered Eleanor ; but the 
interval, which was filled by curious interrogatories in regard 
to Elsie’s marriage, only confirmed his resolution to come to an 
understanding with her, and he determined to seek a private 
interview at the first opportunity. 

After a long and persistent search, he found her in the music- 
room, with Arthur Leighton ; and scarcely returning the young 
man’s salutation, he hurriedly asked her to accompany him to 
the conservatory. 


300 


o’er moor and fen. 


“It is so hot here,” he said, “ and the noise is deafening.” 

Eleanor hesitated a moment, and looked at Arthur. She had 
become so accustomed to consult his wishes, during his ill 
health, that she never thought of acting in opposition to them 
now, although he had entirely recovered, both in body and 
mind. 

“It is warm,” he said, in answer to her look, “ and you are 
very pale. What a brute I am to have kept you here so long. 
Go with Mr. Weston, by all means ; it will be pleasant in the 
conservatory. ’ ’ 

So she took Roy’s arm, and suffered herself to be led away, 
inwardly wondering why he had sought her, and if he would 
mention Elsie. She would have liked to have told him how 
she sympathized in his trouble, but a feeling, which she did not 
understand herself, kept her lips sealed, and they walked along 
in uncomfortable silence. 

“What is the matter?” he said, at length, with a forced 
laugh, as, having reached a retired portion of the conservatory, 
they paused to admire a beautiful flower. “What makes you 
so very quiet ? and why do you look so scared ? ’ ’ 

Eleanor blushed and looked down. 

“There is nothing the matter,” she said ; “I am always 
quiet; ” but her lips quivered as she spoke, and she dared not 
raise her eyes. 

Roy regarded her curiously for a few moments, and then he 
said : 

“Your education is but half complete, Miss Marston, you 
cannot lie without blushing. There is something the matter, 
and, as you will not tell me what it is, I will tell you. You 
think that I am in trouble, and your true womanly nature 
prompts you to offer me your sympathy, but, at the same 
time, an innate delicacy warns you against opening the sub- 


o’er moor and fen. 


301 

ject, lest you wound where you would comfort. Am I not 
right?” 

“ I promised you my friendship,” said Nellie, in a low voice, 
“and that includes my sympathy. I am very sorry for you,” 
and then she raised her eyes to his. 

“I know it,” said Roy, as much moved by the look as the 
words; “more sorry for me, perhaps, than I am for myself. 
With a friend like you, no man’s life could be barren.” 

There was a moment’s pause, and then he continued : 

“ You ought to know me well, Miss Marston, for I have 
spoken more frankly to you of my inmost heart than to any 
other woman in the world, and yet you do not understand me. 
My character is naturally reserved and proud, and I have never 
yet been any woman’s slave. That I loved my cousin de- 
votedly, you already know, but there was nothing submissive 
in that love. I met her on equal terms (or so I thought), and 
rendered love for love. What changed her feelings towards me, 
or why, without a word of warning, she married another, I am 
as ignorant as yourself ; but the fact that she has done so is be- 
yond a doubt, and no other evidence is needed to prove that 
she was unworthy of the love I lavished on her.” 

“Not 4 unworthy, ’ ” said Nellie, hastily; “you must not 
judge her unheard. I am quite sure that if we knew all, we 
should see that she could not have acted otherwise. ’ ’ 

“Still true to your friend!” said Roy, with a sad smile. 
“ Well, although I do not agree, I will not argue the matter 
with you. Keep your faith as long as you can,” and he heaved 
a deep sigh. 

“And keep yours, also,” said Nellie, gently divining, from 
what he said, that the hardest thing for him to bear was the 
fact that Elsie no longer loved him. 

“ That is impossible,” said Roy, sternly ; “ you are arguing 
26 


302 


0 ER MOOR AND FEN. 


against your friend. Elsie would never have married another, 
loving me. No, my faith in her is dead, and with my faith 
my love.” 

He said this in so assured a tone, that although Nellie was 
beyond measure surprised, she was forced to believe that he 
spoke the truth, and he — God help him — thought so also at 
the time. 

He watched the sudden glow come over her face with deep 
interest, and when her eyes brightened with irrepressible de- 
light, he felt pleased himself, and smiled back at her, as though 
his heart had never felt a wound. 

“I am so glad,” she said, impulsively. “I feared so much 
the effect of this blow upon you, but I see I did not know your 
strength of character.” 

“ You will understand me better in the future, I hope,” said 
Roy, “and remember this, that there is not much I cannot 
bear — with you to help me.” 

The last words were spoken very low, and Eleanor answered 
in the same subdued tone, but very deeply agitated. 

“ I did not know that I was of so much consequence.” 

“Nor I, until to-night,” replied Roy, “but the discovery 
once made I trust we shall neither of us forget it. Will you 
try to remember ? ’ ’ 

“Good gracious, here they are! ” exclaimed a voice beside 
them before Nellie had time to answer, and Maude made her 
appearance, saying: “Do you know what the hour is, my 
friends? or are you going to spend the night here? ” 


o’er moor and fen. 


303 


CHAPTER XI. 

LORD OF HIMSELF. 

“ And to his eye 

There was but one beloved face on earth. 

And it was shining on him.” 

I T will be seen by the previous chapter that Elsie had not 
faltered in her purpose, but had faithfully fulfilled her en- 
gagement with St. Evremond, when he came to claim her hand, 
which was much sooner than either of them expected, for, the 
Colonel being suddenly called upon to head a sortie of the be- 
sieged, and comprehending with the experience of an old sol- 
dier how unlikely it was that he would ever return, deemed it 
unwise to postpone the ceremony which was to invest Elsie with 
all the honors and titles pertaining to the wife of Louis Eugene 

St. Evremond, Baron de Cavaignac, and Colonel of the 

regiment of the line. They were, therefore, married in haste 
one bright day in the convent chapel, just before the Colonel 
joined his troops, and in one brief half-hour little Elsie Von 
Decker became Madame la Baronne de Cavaignac, sealing with 
her signature the first chapter of her life, and bidding an eter- 
nal farewell to the old, careless, happy Beechcroft days. 

Immediately after the ceremony they repaired to the salo?i , 
where the sisters had prepared a simple refection of ices, cakes, 
and wine, to do honor to the occasion, and, having drunk to 
his bride’s health, standing, the Colonel prepared to take his 
leave, as his orders admitted of no delay. 

The moment was a solemn one. All present were affected, 
and Elsie’s hand trembled with emotion as she placed it in that 


304 


o’er moor and fen. 


of her husband and turned to receive his first and perhaps his 
last commands. 

“ Madame la Baronne,” he said, “ I have the honor to salute 
you,” and bending over her hand he kissed it; then, standing 
erect, he fixed his eyes upon her, saying, with deep solemnity : 
“ May the God of heaven, whom we both adore, bless and keep 
you in my absence, and if it be His will that we never meet 
again, may He prosper you in all your future life, and give you 
that happiness which, just now, you have so sadly missed.” 

There was a moment’s pause, and then taking a packet from 
his breast-pocket, he gave it to her, saying : “ Here you will find 
a copy of my last will and testament, together with all the papers 
necessary to establish your rights after my death. Preserve 
them carefully, for on them may depend not only your pros- 
perity, but your personal safety. I have left you a life interest 
in my property, and unlimited control of my yearly income, 
together with the guardianship of my little son, until he shall 
be of age, or you shall marry again, in which case he will return 
to his aunt, with whom he now is. Is this arrangement satis- 
factory ? ” 

He paused for a reply, and Elsie essayed to speak, but to her 
impressionable nature there was something at once so grand and 
melancholy in this calm preparation for death, that she was 
completely overcome by it. 

“Monsieur,” she began, struggling to control her feelings, 
but the word ended in a sob, and she could only convulsively 
press his hand. 

“Tears, Mademoiselle?” exclaimed St. Evremond, falling 
back instinctively upon the name to which she was most accus- 
tomed. “ But why then do you cry, my child ? have I not done 
everything to please you ? and my death — will it not be free- 
dom? Oh, you-have no cause to weep.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


305 

“ Do you think, then, that I am heartless? ” exclaimed Elsie, 
through her sobs. “ Do you suppose that I can listen un- 
moved to all that you have done for me, and feel no pang that 
there is no way in which I can show my gratitude? Ah, 
Monsieur, I was both wicked and selfish when I consented to 
this marriage, and I hate myself for what I have done. Give 
me an opportunity to repay your kindness, I entreat you — do not 
leave me thus. Let me be at your side in trouble, and prove 
by my devotion that I am not the cold, ungrateful creature that 
I seem.” 

She stretched out her hands towards him, and swayed to and 
fro from excessive agitation, seeming so incapable of support- 
ing herself, that St. Evremond came a step nearer and passed 
his arm around her waist. 

The sisters stole silently from the room, leaving the husband 
and wife alone together, and Elsie drooping her head upon his 
arm, wept unrestrainedly. 

St. Evremond uttered not a word, but looked down with 
moist eyes upon the soft coils of golden hair, and the mobile, 
girlish figure, clad in its black draperies — so near him, and yet, 
alas ! so far away. All the man within him cried out, ‘ ‘ Draw 
her closer to you ; rest her head upon your heart. Is she not 
yours to do with as you will ? where should a wife find comfort 
save in her husband’s arms? ” But honor said sternly, “ Would 
you break your promise in the first hour of trial, and take ad- 
vantage of this poor child’s gratitude to betray her trust?” 
and he stood resolute, although his heart beat quickly and his 
strong frame quivered with emotion, as he realized what he 
had only half suspected when he married — that he loved his 
wife. 

The struggle with himself was fierce. Never in this man’s 
life had happiness come so near him, and now to let the chance 
26 * U 


306 


o’er moor and fen. 


of it pass him by — to be bound by his word, to raise no de- 
taining hand — oh, it was hard ! Why was there such a gap 
of years between them ? Why had destiny not placed this girl 
at his side in early life, when he might have won her heart ? or, 
failing that, why had she come now, when the heyday of his 
youth was over, to mock him with the knowledge that he had 
never truly loved before ? 

As there are seeds of choicest flowers buried in the bosom 
of mother earth so deep that neither the rain nor the sun can 
bring their beauty to the surface, so in the heart of man, 
ofttimes, love lies dormant through a lapse of years. He passes 
through life like his fellows — eating, drinking, working, striv- 
ing — he even marries and believes that he is happy, but the iron 
plough of circumstances suddenly overturns the soil, and in a 
moment there springs to life and light a rare, choice blossom, 
compared with which the past loves of his life are as wall- 
flowers and the deadly nightshade. Perhaps this blossom 
blooms unseen — perhaps this love never finds words save in 
dreams — yet the man is a better, purer man for it, learn- 
ing to love his Maker through His works, for all true love 
ennobles. 

Such was the love which now dawned for St. Evremond, and 
whilst it plead for expression, bade him be true to his word 
though it broke his heart. 

“ My child,” he said, gravely, “ you must not afflict your- 
self for so trifling a cause ; you have no reason for reproach. 
Such marriages as ours take place every day in France. Ma- 
nages de convenance they are termed, and few have the good 
reasons for them that have influenced us. You owe me nothing 
— I have conferred no favor on you in lending you my name, 
and if I have bequeathed my fortune to you, have I not also left 
you the most sacred charge of rearing and educating my little 


o’er moor and fen. 


307 

son ? Believe me, that in discharging faithfully this trust, you 
will more than repay all that I may have done for you. 

“ Oh, if you but knew,” he continued, “how often my soul 
has sunk within me as the bullets whistled round me, and I 
thought of that poor child — my only tie to life, it is true, and 
yet one that paralyzed my arm, and made me a coward in the 
face of danger ; but I shall go into the field to-day with a brave 
heart, for I know that in you my orphan boy will find a friend. 

“ I give him to you, mon amie , and with him all my bright- 
est dreams of life. Teach him to be an honest and an upright 
man, to scorn deceit, to hate a lie, to live for his country, not 
himself, and make him wiser, better, happier than his father 
has ever been. Adieu ! * * 

He would have released himself and gone at once, feelkig 
that every moment his danger became greater, but Elsie clung 
to his arm, and bedewed the hand she held with tears. 

“Not yet,” she said, excitedly. “ Oh, give me a few more 
moments. I want to tell you how deeply I appreciate your 
trust, and how earnestly I will strive to do always that which I 
think you would wish. I want to say — I want you to know — 
oh, why can I not find words before you go ? ” 

“I need no words,” said St. Evremond, gently. “I know 
just what you would say, so do not try to speak; but — lift your 
head, mon amie — let me look at you once more, that, when my 
hour of trial is at hand, I may recall the image of my — my boy’s 
mother, and take comfort.” 

Slowly she raised her head as he desired, and looking, he saw 
a tender, wistful, childish grief depicted on her fair face, that 
almost unmanned him. His lips quivered, his hand trembled, 
his whole soul rushed into his eyes, and then he wrenched him- 
self from her and strode away, not daring to cast a look behind. 

That evening they learned the troops had moved, and the 


308 


o’er moor and fen. 


1 




good sisters gathered in the chapel to pray for their safe return. 
Thither, also, went Elsie, and joined in their prayers, for it 
was all that she could do now for her friend and benefactor ; 
and the thought that she was to be the gainer by her husband’s 
death oppressed her like a nightmare, and added fervor to her 
devotions. 

Long she wept and prayed that night, and communed with 
her own heart, but when, at last, she laid her head upon her 
pillow, she forgot her trouble in bright dreams, wherein she 
ministered to St. Evremond, and gave a double measure of 
affection to his little son. 


CHAPTER XII. 

A DANGEROUS RIDE. 

“ Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, 

Our fatal shadows that walk by us still.” 

I T must not be supposed that Elsie had neglected to inform 
her mother of her father’s sad fate. She did not write to 
her immediately, it is true, fearing lest Jack should endeavor to 
reach her, should he know she was alone ; but on her engage- 
ment to Colonel St. Evremond, she had at once written a full 
and explicit account of all that had befallen her, so that the 
note announcing her marriage had been but a short, and, as we 
have seen, unsatisfactory one; the first letter never having 
reached its destination, and her family being in ignorance as 
to her desolate condition. 

There was one who could have given them some information, 


o’er moor and fen. 


309 


had she so desired, and this was Annida Strathmore, who still 
preserved the stolen letter, the loss of which had parted two 
loving hearts forever, and smiled in triumph when she heard 
how successful her scheme had proved. Her revenge was com- 
plete — even more than she had asked was granted — for the girl 
had forged for herself enduring chains, and Annida knew full 
well the suffering which lay before her, wedded to one man 
with her heart given to another. 

But the knowledge of her victory over the “soft white 
kitten” did not give the “tigress” the gratification she had 
expected. After all, it was but a poor compensation for what she 
was suffering to know that her enemy suffered also, and her life, 
despite its splendor, was becoming unbearable. To the outer 
world she appeared to be one of fortune’s favorites, and a 
worthy object for the ire of the gods, so smoothly did her life 
flow on ; but she knew that she had thrown the ring of Poly- 
crates in the water, when she lost Arthur Leighton. 

Many efforts had she made since her marriage to win him 
back to her side once more, and though always meeting with 
repulsion, she kept on hoping that some day he would relent 
and take pity on her lonely, loveless life ; but she did not know 
how changed he was from the Arthur of “ Auld lang syne,” or 
her hopes would at once have perished. There was a time when 
she could have made him see her actions through her eyes, and 
blinded him to all else save her beauty — a time when he would 
have made no effort to release himself from the thraldom in 
which she held him, with all his senses stupefied, drunk with 
that poisonous wine of life, a sensuous and degrading passion ; 
but the blow which had fallen upon him, with such crushing 
violence, had brought this blessing with it, that it aroused him 
from this sleep of death, and restored his manhood to him. 

He could not hate this woman, although she had so deeply 


3io 


o’er moor and fen. 


wronged him, and the old habit of making excuses for her still 
lingered with him ; but he had learned how little outward per- 
fection was worth, and abhorred himself for having been so 
long her slave, despite the many warnings her ambitious pride 
had given him. 

Arthur was by nature a poet, and possessed of a poet’s sus- 
ceptibility to all that is beautiful in nature, and it was owing 
to this that Annida had gained her ascendancy over him ; but, 
although capable of great things, during the period of his love 
for her, he had written nothing of any worth, passing his days 
in an idle inertia, working only when it was absolutely neces- 
sary, and then so carelessly as to give no idea of his ability. 

Now, however, his day-star dawned, and in Eleanor Marston 
he found the friend and sympathizer, without which he would 
never have risen from the gloomy shadows Annida had cast 
around him, nor the world have known the wealth of poetry in 
his heart, which had been overlaid by a thick crust of selfish 
indulgence, for so many years. < 

To his over- weary spirit, this calm, placid friendship was an 
inestimable boon, and Nellie became the loadstone of his ex- 
istence. He considered her the embodiment of all womanly 
purity and virtue, and enshrined her in his heart, as a good 
Catholic does his patron saint, worshipping her at a distance, 
with a poet’s adoration, and drawing from her inspiration for 
his sweetest songs. 

Annida watched this growing intimacy in alarm. Whilst the 
throne was empty in Arthur’s heart, there was still a chance 
that she might regain her old position ; but should this new 
friend usurp it, then, indeed, her reign was forever ended. As 
her fears gained ground, she became more and more restless, 
flying from one excitement to another, in the vague hope of 
crushing her anxiety, until poor Leonard, who followed in her 


o’er moor and fen. 


311 

wake, was forced to plead for mercy and a short interim of rest 
at Strathmore Park, where they had scarcely been since their mar- 
riage ; but Annida would not leave the field in the enemy’s pos- 
session, and stood her ground until Nellie Marston returned home. 

Nellie meanwhile, wholly unconscious of the trouble she was 
causing, led a very happy life ; and had Annida only possessed 
the power of reading her heart, her fears would soon have been 
set at rest, for she would have seen that Roy, not Arthur, was 
the object of her thoughts. 

From the evening of the reception, Roy had determined to 
ask Eleanor to be his wife, but the opportunity seemed never 
to occur. Whilst in New York, she was constantly in society, 
and at home Arthur never left her side, and, as the days passed, 
a dread lest Elsie should return and triumph in the fact that she 
had broken his heart, rendered Roy positively desperate. 

“ She shall find me married, also,” he said ; “ but, confound 
it all, how can I offer myself, when that fellow forever monopo- 
lizes Nellie?” Then a brilliant idea occurred to him, and he 
hastened to put it into execution. 

“Mr. Weston’s compliments, Miss, and will you go driving 
with him? ” said the servant, entering a little room opening on 
the garden, wherein Nellie and Arthur were established for the 
afternoon, the one sewing industriously, the other reading aloud 
fragments from a well-worn volume of Shelley. 

Nellie’s face flushed with pleasure. “What shall Isay?” 
she asked, looking at Arthur ; “ do you think I might go ? Papa 
and mamma are both out — but perhaps you want me here ? ’ ’ 

“Perhaps?” said Arthur, with a smile. “I do not think 
there is much doubt about it ; I always want you everywhere.” 

“ Then I had better send word that I cannot go,” said Nellie, 
endeavoring to conquer the feeling of regret which passed over 
her. 


312 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ On the contrary, you will send word that you are coming 
down at once,” said Arthur, “ if only to prove that you can be 
humanly selfish now and then. Miss Marston will be very 
happy to go driving, Thomas,” he said, addressing the man, 
who left the room at once with the message. 

“ Now, run and put on your hat,” he said to Nellie, “ or Mr. 
Weston, horses, carriage, and all, will be in the house to see 
what keeps you.” 

“But what will you do by yourself all the afternoon? ” in- 
quired Nellie, looking wistfully at him. 

“ Oh, I shall do very well,” said Arthur; “ I must get accus- 
tomed to be alone, for something tells me that I shall not have 
you very long, to pet and spoil me as you have been doing.” 

“ What do you mean? ” asked Nellie, in confusion. 

“ Nothing,' nothing ; there! run away,” said Arthur, “but 
take my advice, and don’t trust yourself too near a church with 
that young gentleman in the wagon.” 

Nellie laughed and blushed and ran away, and Arthur looked 
after her with a sigh, saying : 

“I am an uncommonly selfish brute. Why can I not feel 
pleased that she is going to enjoy herself? ” 

Meanwhile Roy sat in the wagon, trying to determine with 
what words he should woo his companion, and rather regretting 
that he^had not given the subject more attention before he left 
home. 

“Jack asked me to exercise his horses,” he said, as Eleanor 
seated herself beside him, “and I thought perhaps you would 
like to go out this lovely afternoon.” 

“It was very kind of you to think of me,” replied Nellie ; 
“ I shall enjoy a drive very much,” and then they talked about 
the weather, the early spring, the birds, the foliage, in faction 
every subject but the one Roy most wished to introduce. 


o’er moor and fen. 


3*3 


Once or twice he ventured on a piece* of sentiment, but 
before he was able to follow it up, the horses expressed their 
disapprobation by whisking their tails over the reins, and then 
indicating a wish to kick them off again ; or by endeavoring to 
race an animal which passed them, or affecting to be very much 
afraid of their own shadows, so that Roy’s time was occupied 
in the struggle for mastery. Nevertheless he did succeed at 
length in bringing the horses down to a walk, and then adroitly 
introduced the subject of matrimony generally, and the animals, 
seeming to give up the contest, went along sadly, as though 
they had lost their self-respect in allowing themselves to be 
forced to listen to such nonsense, and were now as innocent of 
mischief as newly-born lambs. 

“This is my chance,” said Roy to himself; “if I do not 
offer myself now, I shall never do so,” and then he continued 
his conversation. 

“ I am not a wealthy man, Miss Marston,” he said, “but I 
do not think riches the highest aim of life. I cannot under- 
stand how a human being can convert himself into a mere 
money-making machine, and spencl the best years of his life in 
laying up wealth for another to squander after he is gone, and 
passing his youth alone, because he is not worth a hundred 
thousand dollars. Some men suppose that they could not 
marry, if they would, on less than this ; but I think that if a 
woman truly loves a man she would far rather share his poverty 
than live in plenty, but apart from him.” 

“ I am quite sure of it,” replied Nellie ; “but there are very 
few men, Mr. Weston, who understand a woman’s heart.” 

“That is in a measure owing to the fact that there are many 
women not worth studying,” replied Roy. “There are but 
fe\y true women, Miss Nellie, but there are many bearing the 
27 


314 


o’er moor and fen. 


semblance of most beautiful womanhood, who hold themselves 
only for the highest bidder.” 

“ I can scarcely believe that,” said Nellie, gravely. “ Surely 
one cannot buy love.” 

“Not exactly,” replied Roy; “but the semblance of it may 
be, and is, bought every day. I am often tempted to give 
thanks for my poverty, when I see one of these fair devils 
snaring some unlucky bird with golden feathers. I think I 
should cut my throat after marriage, if I found that my wife 
did not love me.” 

“ I can think of nothing more heart-rending than to find that 
one has been deceived in such a way,” said Nellie, “ especially 
after the marriage vows are spoken, and there is no chance of 
retreat; but no amount of misery justifies suicide, Mr. Weston.” 

She spoke so earnestly, that Roy looked up quickly at her, a 
vague remembrance of a curious story which he had heard re- 
garding her, suddenly crossing his mind. 

“Will you tell me,” he said, after a pause, “ if it is true that 
Arthur Leighton attempted to put an end to his life just before 
his severe illness? ” 

Nellie looked confused. “You had better ask him,” she 
said, at length. “ Mr. Leighton’s secrets are his own.” 

“He shares them with you, however, does he not?” said 
Roy. 

“But that is not sharing them with you,” she replied, 
laughing. 

“ No, unfortunately not,” replied Roy, with a sigh. “ I only 
wish it were. It would make me very happy to think that your 
confidence in me was so great, you would talk to me as to a 
second self.” 

This was a great step on the road to matrimony, and Roy 
began to have hopes that after all he should succeed in making 


o’er moor and fen. 


315 


an offer of his hand and heart before the ride was over, and 
the neaf-horse, despite the depression of his spirits, negligently 
switched his tail over the rein without attracting any attention. 

“I have no secrets of my own,” replied Nellie, “and under 
no possible circumstances would I betray another’s, even to my 
second self,” she added, laughing. 

“But would you tell me all about yourself?” asked Roy. 
“Do you trust me sufficiently to call upon me should you be 
in any trouble ? ’ ’ 

“ I trust you, certainly,” replied Nellie ; “ but I should never 
think of asking your assistance, for fear of giving trouble.” 

“And do you think that anything which I could do for you 
would give me trouble?” inquired Roy. “Don’t you know 
that it would be a pleasur? ? I would risk my life, if it would 
do you any good. ’ ’ 

He stooped his head, so that he might see the color rising 
in her cheek and the soft light stealing into her large, dark 
eyes ; but when she gave him, in return, a glance full of inno- 
cent, trusting love, his heart smote him for taking so much and 
giving so little. 

Now the off-horse switched his tail over the other rein. The 
conversation was getting unpleasantly sentimental, and, despite 
his wish to keep the peace, he must express his disapproval ; 
his driver, however, did not seem to care, but continued his 
conversation, without regard to the “signs of the times.” 

“I can scarcely believe that you think so much of me,” said 
Nellie, softly. 

“But you will believe it, if I tell you so? ” said Roy. “If 
I tell you that you are more to me than all the world — that — ” 

The horses laid their ears upon their necks, “ So much the 
better to hear you, my dear,” and — the dash-board became a 
thing of the past. 


o’er moor and fen. 


316 

Recalled thus unpleasantly to his duties as charioteer, Roy 
did his best to control the unruly animals ; but they defie.d his 
skill, and darted off at full speed, as though possessed, drag- 
ging after them the shell of a wagon, which threatened to go 
to pieces every moment. 

“Are you frightened?” asked Roy of his companion, as 
they dashed along. 

“No,” she whispered, “not whilst I am with you.” There 
was not much in the words, but the tone went to Roy’s heart, 
and he felt that his suit had been accepted. 

“Pass your hand through my arm, darling,” he said, when 
he spoke again ; “it will serve to steady us both, and then if we 
meet death we shall be together.” 

She did as he desired, and the mad race continued until they 
were within sight of home. The church at the top of the hill 
next came to view, and then Roy said : 

“Brace yourself firmly against me; I must pull the horses 
into this fence, for we can never reach the foot of the hill in 
safety — the wagon will go to pieces. Put your arms around me. 
Remember, you hold me as well as yourself.” 

She did exactly as he told her, unquestioningly, and put both 
arms about him, in the vague hope of being of some use. Then 
came a crash, as the horses struck the fence — a sensation of being 
thrown violently into the air, and then a dull unconsciousness, 
from which she aroused to find herself within the church-porch, 
with Roy sprinkling water on her face. 

“At last ! ” he said, as she looked up at him. “ I began to 
fear that those dear eyes would never open again. Where are 
you hurt, darling? ” 

“ I do not think I am hurt at all,” replied Nellie, making an 
effort to rise ; “ only a little bruised and frightened ; and you 
— are you uninjured ? ” 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


317 


“Yes, I am all right,” replied Roy. “I sprang out of the 
wagon as it struck, and tried to take you with me ; but you flew 
over my head like a bird, before I had a chance to seize you. 
It is fortunate that you fell upon the soft turf,” and, folding 
his arms around her, he drew her head upon his shoulder. 
“My first effort at protection has been very poor,” he con- 
tinued, with a smile, “ but I shall make amends for it by the 
future. You may trust your life to me without fear, my dar- 
ling.” 

“Where did you go,” asked Arthur, when Eleanor at last 
returned home. 

“To church,” said Nellie, laughing and blushing. 

“Ah! you would not listen to my advice,” replied Arthur. 
“Well, ‘a wilfu woman maun hae her ain way.’ May I con- 
gratulate you ? ’ ’ 

“ I suppose so,” said Nellie, “ if you are not vexed with me.” 

“Well, old fellow, you are engaged to be married at last,” 
said Roy, to himself, as he walked slowly home that evening. 
“And — by Jove ! you didn’t offer yourself after all.” 

27 * 


o’er moor and fen. 


318 


CHAPTER XIII. 

MADAME LA BARONNE. 

“ Oh, woman ! in our hours of ease, 

Uncertain, coy, and hard to please ; 

And variable as the shade 

By the light quivering aspen made ; 

When pain and anguish wring the brow, 

A ministering angel thou ! ” 

F OR weeks Elsie heard nothing of her husband. The 
newspapers announced the sortie as having been success- 
ful, but its success was not made apparent by any advantage 
accruing to the besieged, and the names and number of the 
killed and wounded were carefully suppressed. 

Elsie’s anxiety was great ; she had promised herself to repay 
St. Evremond’s kindness by a life’s devotion, and now the fear 
lest this was no longer to be hoped for, caused her inexpressible 
pain, so that when at last one of the visiting sisters brought 
tidings that some one answering his description was lying 
seriously wounded in the Palais de 1’ Industrie, she felt as though 
a reprieve had been granted. He might die still, it was true, 
but not until she had poured forth her gratitude and ministered 
to his needs. 

“ Sister Antonia,” she said, rising suddenly during the good 
sister’s story, “ will you lend me your costume for a little 
while ? ’ ’ 

“Certainly,” said she, in surprise. “It is, however, but a 
shabby garment for Madame la Baronne.” 

“ None other would suit me as well, however,” replied Elsie, 


o’er moor and fen. 


319 

with a sad smile, “ and see, I will give you the dress I have on 
in place of it.” 

The exchange was quickly made, and Elsie stood converted 
into as dainty and picturesque a sceur de charite as one could 
well imagine. 

“But it becomes you wonderfully! ” exclaimed the French- 
woman, in raptures over her work, “and Madame will not 
wear the veil.” 

“The veil is the most important point,” replied Elsie, 
shrouding herself in it. “ Now, sister, be quick and tell me 
how I shall find Monsieur le Baron.” 

“Madame would go to him?” said the sister, in surprise; 
“ but it is not at all a nice place, this Palais de lTndustrie — the 
dead and living are packed close like the sardines in a box, and 
the ventilation is so bad — ugh, Madame will fall ill.” 

“Then it must be very bad for Monsieur to be there,” re- 
plied Elsie; “tell me quickly how to get to him, that I may 
have him removed.” 

“ Mais bien / that is well,” said the sister; “at the Hotel 
Grande it is delightful, fine rooms, good ventilation, and — 
quelque chose pour — eat. We will take him there, ri est ce pas.” 

On Elsie’s arrival at the Palais, she found the sister’s account 
fully realized, and shuddered to think how long her husband 
had lain there, alone and uncared for. She quickly found her 
way to the miserable pallet on which he lay, and tears filled 
her eyes as she looked upon him, so changed was he from when 
she had last seen him. 

The physician who had escorted her, now looked inquiringly 
at the beautiful face the removal of the veil revealed, so unlike 
the ordinary hospital nurses. “You are then a relative of 
Monsieur’s?” he asked. “We have been unable to discover 
who he was, as he has not been conscious since he was brought 
here. ’ ’ 


320 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ Monsieur is my husband,” said Elsie, controlling her 
emotion with difficulty, “and as soon as it is possible I would 
have him removed to more comfortable quarters. ’ ’ 

“Monsieur cannot go now,” said the Frenchman, with an 
expressive shrug. “ Serious wounds and long exposure have 
done their work, and the fever is still very high.” 

“ Then I will remain here with him,” said Elsie, laying aside 
her bonnet with a determined air, and taking her place beside 
him. 

The days passed, he grew no worse, and still he did not im- 
prove ; but Elsie nursed him assiduously, leaving his side only 
when he slept to take a little recreation. His lethargy passed 
away, but he was still delirious, and knew nothing of what went 
on around him, talking ever of his little son, and all his future 
plans for him. 

Meanwhile, Elsie received letters from home. They had 
only just heard there of Mr. Yon Decker’s death, and their 
grief was excessive. Their sympathy did Elsie good, and for 
the first time she felt a yearning to return to America, and 
breathe her sorrows into her mother’s ear. But what was this 
postscript* which she had overlooked on first reading the letter? 
She looked again and read : 

“Roy and Eleanor Marston were married in St. Thomas’ 
Church yesterday afternoon. They send warmest love and 
sympathy through me, and Nellie says that she will write to 
you at once.” 

Roy and Eleanor Marston ! Elsie was struck dumb with 
amazement. Maude had written the letter, and yet she spoke 
of this marriage carelessly, as though it were an ordinary event. 
What did it all mean ? Was it possible that she had been de- 
ceived, and Roy after all had not loved Maude ? Married, and 
to Nellie! it was incredible. Why had he acted thus? He 


o’er moor and fen. 


321 


could not have loved her, they were so unlike, and Nellie had 
confessed she was afraid of him. Ah, could it be that he still 
toved herself, and in his disappointment at her marriage had 
turned for consolation to her friend ? Had she, by her own rash 
act, raised the barrier between them ? A tide of misery swept 
over her soul as this idea suggested itself to her mind, and she 
dared not dwell upon it. 

“It does not matter now,” she said to herself, “however 
this has come about, my future life is settled. Here is my 
duty whilst my husband lives, and after he is gone, I have his 
dying charge, his little son.” And at his bedside, upon her 
knees, she renewed her vows,' sealing them with a tender kiss 
upon the thin white hand, lying so still upon the coverlet. 

He stirred as she raised her head, and looking up, she met 
a glance of recognition. 

“You here, my child?” he murmured, and, springing to 
her feet in glad surprise, Elsie hastened to summon the phy- 
sician. 

“Ah ! yes, he is doing well,” said this gentleman, when he 
appeared ; “keep up a good heart, Monsieur, and we will soon 
be able to remove you to better quarters. You are very weak 
still,” he continued, “but you must know that you have been 
very ill — so ill, indeed, that but for the tender care of this good 
nurse, I doubt if we could have saved your life.” 

“You saved my life?” said St. Evremond, feebly, after the 
doctor had left them. “ Ah ! mon enfant , may you never live 
to repent it.” 

Shortly after this he recovered sufficiently to be removed, and 
was taken to the convent, where he remained, still an invalid, 
until the siege was over, tended and cared for by the little 
community of which his wife had so long been an honorary 
member. 


V 


322 


o’er moor and fen. 


Now that she knew that Roy had not married Maude, Elsie’s 
longing to return home was not to be suppressed ; and when at 
last peace was declared, and the Colotiel, disgusted with his 
countrymen, expressed his willingness to emigrate with her, her 
heart seemed overflowing with gladness. 

Hastily writing home to the effect that she would soon be on 
her way thither, Elsie devoted herself to preparations for the 
journey, whilst the Colonel set his affairs in order, and made 
arrangements for his boy to meet them on the steamer. 

Everything went on prosperously. The Colonel, although 
still far from well, seemed to improve in anticipation of leaving 
the great city, once his pride, but now so associated with dis- 
tress and mortification that he turned his back upon it with- 
out regret. 

It was a bright, beautiful day when they went on board the 
steamer, and Elsie looked eagerly around for her new son. It 
was difficult, however, to recognize even the features of a friend 
in the crowd upon the vessel, and much more so to pick out, 
from among a dozen children, one whom she knew only by 
description. 

As she stood considering, beside a group of little ones, a 
clear, childish treble exclaimed, suddenly : “ But I am here, my 
own papa, here with my dear Jeanette,” and the next moment 
a handsome little fellow had sprung into her husband’s arms, 
and was being fondly pressed to his heart. 

A little while after, when they were seated in the cabin to- 
gether, Elsie had an opportunity of inspecting her future charge. 
He was more than merely handsome, although he was that also, 
but beyond his regular features, sparkling eye, and curly, wav- 
ing hair, there was a certain princely air, which became him 
well, and an assured, bold manner, which denoted that he had 
been taught early a lesson of self-dependence. 


o’er moor and fen. 


323 


“Lorraine,” said his father, addressing him, “I have brought 
you a companion. Do you see this young lady ? She is going 
to live with us and make you very happy. Go give her a kiss, 
my boy, and thank her for her kindness. ’ ’ 

“I will kiss her,” said the boy; “but why should I thank 
her ? I did not ask her to live with us, and she has done noth- 
ing for me.” And he looked intently at his step-mother. 

“But she will do a great deal for you,” replied his father. 
“I told you that she would make you very happy.” 

Lorraine stood irresolute for a moment, and then advancing 
to Elsie’s side, held up his mouth for a kiss. 

“I will kiss .you now,” he said, “and when you have made 
me very happy, I will thank you.” 

“That will be best,” said Elsie, laughing heartily. “You 
are an honest, straightforward little boy, and I shall love you 
very dearly. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, every one does that,” said the young prince. “ I had 
rather you amused me. Do you know any stories ? and what ’s 
your name ? ” 

“I know a great many beautiful stories,” replied Elsie; and 
then she paused and looked timidly at the Colonel for an answer 
to the second question. 

“ And her name is Elsie,” said his father, “ but you may call 
her mamma, if you wish.” 

“No,” said the boy, in a decided tone, “I will call her 
Elsie. My mamma is in heaven,” he continued, looking up, 
“and I do not want another,” 

A look of pain crossed St. Evremond’s face, and he turned 
quickly away to hide it. 

“Elsie is much the prettier name,” said Elsie, “and you 
shall be my little brother, and call me what you will.” 



BOOK FOURTH. 




















♦ 



































CHAPTER I. 


A RETURN TO THE NEST. 

“ Home again ! home again ! 

From a foreign shore ; 

And, oh ! it fills my heart with joy 
To see my friends once more.” 



HAT time will they arrive ? ’ ’ inquired Roberta Steven- 


V V son of Jack Von Decker, as they stood together upon 
the terrace at Beechcroft, and gazed along the river-road to see 
if any carriage were in sight. 

“ They will come by the afternoon boat, if they come at all,” 
replied Jack; “but they may not be here before to-morrow. 
Elsie writes that the Colonel has not borne the voyage as well 
as they hoped he would, and they may be obliged to remain in 
New York for a time, until he has recruited his health. She 
says he is at present unable to bear any further fatigue or ex- 
citement.” 

“ I should not think that a trip over in the ferry-boat could 
be termed either fatiguing or exciting,” said Bob, laughing. 
“ He must be one of those interesting creatures who are pos- 
sessed of a * highly-strung nervous organization.’ ” 

“It is not the effect of the boat that she fears,” said Jack; 
“it is his introduction to his august brother-in-law that causes 
her anxiety. I wish I had her note about me ; it would make 
you laugh to see how many cautions she has given me in regard 


327 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


328 

to my behavior. I believe she is half afraid lest I frighten her 
little Frenchman to death.” 

“I am not at all surprised,” said Bob. “ If I had a little 
Frenchman, I should always put him in my pocket whenever 
you approached.” 

“If you ever dare to have a little Frenchman,” said Jack, 
threateningly, “put him in an ‘eating-proof safe,’ or I ’ll de- 
vour him alive, without pepper or salt.” 

“Alas ! alas ! ” cried Bob, “I weep for my prospective lord, 
but I shall have to put on mourning for you both, I fear, for you 
never could digest a Frenchman — he would certainly disagree 
with you.” 

“I might swallow a little ‘French polish’ first,” said Jack, 
“and even if that didn’t answer, what ’s an attack of indiges- 
tion in comparison with the happiness of a friend ? I should 
die content in the knowledge that I had saved you from a life- 
long misery.” 

“ There is the boat,” cried Bob ; “raise your glasses quickly, 
Jack, and see if Elsie is on board.” 

“ Number one, is a seedy old gentleman with a gold-headed 
cane,” said Jack, watching the landing of the passengers; 
“ number two, a little darkey ; number three, a cow — well, none 
of those are Elsie, I hope, although one never knows to what 
extent one’s nearest and dearest may be metamorphosed by a 
sojourn in Paris.” 

“Stop your nonsense,” exclaimed Bob, “and look at that 
carriage just landing. You don’t suppose they would bring a 
sick man over on foot.” 

“Ah, true,” said Jack, “there is a carriage, and on the 
front seat is a fanciful looking female with a little boy. On 
the back — ah! yes, there is Elsie, bless her pretty face, with 
a bundle beside her, which must, I presume, be what she calls 


o’er moor and fen. 


329 


her husband. There’s a gorgeous-looking creature beside the 
driver, but I suppose he is the valet.” 

“And it is really Elsie?” said Bob; “dear child, I am so 
glad she is at home again. I will run away now, Jack, lest my 
presence agitate the Colonel; but you will come for me, will 
you not, when Elsie is ready to receive me? ” 

“Yes, yes, I ’ll come for you,” said Jack, “but it may not 
be for a week or more ; it will take a long while to make a man 
out of that bundle of clothes she has beside her. ’ ’ 

“ Let us hope for the best,” said Bob, with a merry laugh, as 
she ran away. 

The trees were as green in Beechcroft Avenue as when Elsie 
went away, and as the horses turned into it, and she caught a 
glimpse of the old house, with her mother, brothers, and sister 
standing at the door to receive her, she scarcely knew whether 
to rejoice or weep. It was comforfing to be among them all 
once more, and when she felt her mother’s arms about her, she 
laughed for joy, but a moment after the tears were rolling 
down her cheeks, as she missed the dearest face of all, and 
realized that never more could she receive her father’s greet- 
ing. 

“ Have I kissed you all ? ” she said, at last, looking brightly 
round her. “Mother, Maude, Alfred, Edwin — but where is 
Jack?” 

1 Wonder of wonders, Jack was mercifully extricating “the 
Frenchman” from his wraps, and assisting him to alight from 
- the carriage. 

“ Merci / merci /” said St. Evremond, as, having reached 
terra firma , he accepted his brother-in-law’s arm to support 
him into the house; “it gives me pain to be so troublesome, 
but I have been very ill. I would have waited for a day or two 
to recruit before presenting myself, but Madame was impatient 
28* 


330 


o’er moor and fen. 


to behold you all, and would not let me remain in the hotel 
without her.” 

“ I am very glad that you came on at once,” said Mrs. Von 
Decker, advancing to meet her son-in-law with a pleasant smile; 
“ you will recover much more rapidly, I feel assured.” 

She put out her hand to him as she spoke, and the Colonel’s 
gallantry overbalanced his strength, for, quitting Jack’s arm to 
respond to her cordial greeting, he staggered and fell fainting 
to the ground. 

“Alphonse!” cried Elsie, in alarm, and in a moment the 
valet was at his side. 

It was nothing, he assured her, only a passing weakness ; but 
if the young gentleman would assist, it would be better to carry 
Monsieur le Baron at once to his room. 

This suggestion was at once put into execution, and Elsie, 
after seeing Master Lorraine led away by her little brother to 
inspect the curiosities of the well-remembered library, followed 
in the wake of the trio to the guest-chamber at the end of the 
upper hall. 

“I do not know whether your rooms will suit you, dear,” 
said Maude, as she walked beside her, “but if they do not, it 
is easy to change them. The green-room is arranged for the 
Colonel and yourself, and there is a bed in the dressing-room 
for the little boy, if you wish to have him near you.” 

“Oh, no,” said Elsie;. “Lorraine always sleeps with Jean- 
ette; he would not like to be with me, and his father is not well 
enough to have him in his room; but the bed will do admirably 
for Alphonse, as he always stays with Monsieur through the 
night.” 

“And you, dear?” asked Maude, looking puzzled. 

“ I will go back to my own dear little room, if you will let 
me,” said Elsie, blushing. “And we will try to think we are 


o’er moor and fen. 


331 


little children again, Maudy, and talk all night through the 
open door,” she continued, putting her arms around her sister, 
and resting her head upon her shoulder. “ You see,” she went 
on, after a moment’s pause, “I should only be in the way if I 
stayed with Monsieur, for I am such a poor nurse. I tried to 
take care of him when he was in the hospital ; but as soon as 
he could move, he engaged Alphonse to take my place, and he 
has been with him ever since.” 

So the matter was settled, and Elsie gradually sank into her 
accustomed niche at home, pursuing her old occupations, visit- 
ing her old haunts, and becoming daily so like her former self, 
that, but for the Colonel’s presence in the family circle, the 
member of it had been tempted to believe her marriage all a 
dream. 

The Colonel watched the improvement in her health and 
spirits with sad interest, for he felt how wide a gulf was open- 
ing between himself and this light-hearted, happy girl. He 
was able now to go about, but he never joined her in her walks 
or rides, nor expressed a wish to do so. He had resolved to 
settle in America, and had bought a handsome property on 
Staten Island ; but he never asked her to inspect it with him, 
nor alluded to her going thither when it was in order. “She 
shall have her choice,” he would say to himself. “I will not 
force her to leave the home where she is so happy, to follow 
the fortunes of a man more than twice her age, and as uncon- 
genial as myself.” And Elsie, ignorant of the cause of his 
constraint, saw that he shunned her society, and consequently 
kept herself aloof from him. 

“They are the most remarkable pair of turtle-doves that I 
ever saw,” said Jack, as he talked the new-comers over with 
Roberta Stevenson. “ I only hope that when I marry, my wife 
may be as scrupulous about intruding her society upon me as 
Elsie is upon her husband.” 


332 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ If I should ever have a lord and master with such secluded 
tastes,” replied Bob, “ I shall retire with him to a desert island, 
where we can occupy opposite sides, if we see fit, without at- 
tracting the ill-natured comment of our relatives.” 

“Bobby,” said Jack, “you talk a great deal too much of 
that future lord and master ; it looks sometimes as though you 
seriously contemplated matrimony.” 

“Of course I do,” replied Bob. “What else is there, my 
child, for* a poor, lone woman, with five boys, to look for- 
ward to ? ” 

“ And must the misguided wretch who takes you, marry also 
all five of the boys? ” said Jack. 

“Why, certainly,” replied Bob. “Do you suppose that I 
would marry, if it wasn’t for my children? Dear ! no ; but I 
want a father for them.” 

“What for?” asked Jack; “to give them a thrashing all 
around? You need n’t sacrifice yourself on that account — I ’ll 
do it. Speak but the word, and off comes my coat this minute.” 

“Thrash my precious, innocent babes!” exclaimed Bob; 
“ that I should live to hear it even suggested ! Away, monster, 
from my sight at once. You shall never be my darlings’ step- 
father. No ; I want some one to be very good to them, and 
help them on in the world.” 

There was a sort of wistful tenderness in the last few words, 
which attracted Jack’s attention. 

“ I don’t think they seem to want much help,” he said, cheer- 
fully. “ They get along as well as any boys I know.” 

“The younger ones are very happy,” said Bob, seriously; 
“ but August is very miserable.” 

“What ’s the matter with him? not in love, I hope?” said 
Jack. 

“No, you wretch,” said Bob,- laughing ; “there are other 


o’er moor and fen. 


333 

ills in life, although you only know of one. August wants to 
be a clergyman, but father will not hear of it.” 

“ Wants to be a clergyman ! ” repeated Jack, in a tone of 
wonder. “ Your father’s son wants to be a clergyman ! Ye 
gods and little fishes ! it is enough to make old Plato turn in 
his grave,” and he laughed heartily. 

“Hush! ” said Bob, “please don’t laugh,” and a look of 
pain crossed her face. “ My father was not always as you know 
him. He never lost his faith until my mother died. He loved 
her so dearly, Jack, so dearly. When she lay dying, she took 
my hand and made me promise to be good to him, and try to 
take her place ; and I did try, but he would not go to church 
with me, and by-and-by I forgot all my mother taught me. 
August has not forgotten, though; he has all mother’s little 
books, and he wants to run away from here, before we all grow 
wicked.” 

“And your father will not let him go? ” asked Jack. 

“He says he cannot afford to send him to the seminary,” 
said Bob ; “ and, oh, Jack if I could only make some money 
— only save enough to send him there myself — I should feel 
as though mother would forgive me for my broken promise.” 

“Nonsense,” said Jack, springing up and making an effort 
to shake off the serious mood which was creeping over both of 
them. “You have no reason to upbraid yourself; few girls are 
so conscientious; and as for August, stick to your first plan, 
get him a new father, and think seriously of me as first candi- 
date. I ’ll promise to send our eldest boy, at once, to the first 
seminary in the country, my dear, and the other four according 
to their tastes. It ’s a good offer, Bobby ; you ought to accept it, 
if only for your family’s sake.” 

“It’s a first-class offer,” said Bob, rising also, and laugh- 
ingly extending her hand ; “but I don’t think I’ll accept it, 
my sweet Jacky, if only for your family’s sake.” 


334 * 


o’er moor and fen 


CHAPTER II. 


elsie’s “ little frenchman.” 


“ Weep no more, lady ; weep no more, 
Thy sorrow is in vain ; 


For violets plucked, the sweetest showers 
Will ne’er make grow again.” 



LSIE’S arrival at Beechcroft brought Annida at once to 


1 Strathmore Park. She longed to triumph over her 
enemy, but she kept her feelings in subjection, fearing lest her 
share in the loss of the missing letter should be suspected. 

“Mr. Weston’s marriage must have surprised you,” she said 
to Elsie one morning, as she was paying her a visit. 

“Yes,” replied Elsie, “it did. I heard he was married 
before I heard of his engagement. It was very sudden, was it 


not? ’ 


“Very sudden,” replied Annida. “I do not think the 
notion ever occurred to him until you set the fashion.” 

“He was not engaged, then, when my note arrived?” 
inquired Elsie, in a would-be careless tone. 

“No, unless he was engaged to you,” said Annida, with a 
smile; “we all suspected that, you know.” 

“ Then you were all mistaken,” replied Elsie. “ Mr. Weston 
never even offered himself to me ; we were cousins to each 
other, that was all.” 

“ Indeed? ” said Annida, with an incredulous smile ; “ then 
your clandestine correspondence was purely platonic ? ’ ’ 

“I do not know to what you allude,” replied Elsie, but her 
blushes belied her words: “ I never wrote my cousin but one 


o’er moor and fen. 


335 


short note in my life, and "as he never answered that, I do not 
think we can be accused of having carried on a clandestine 
correspondence. ’ ’ 

“He never answered it?” said Annida, in mock surprise; 
“ that is very strange.” 

“Not at all,” said Elsie, “it did not positively require an 
answer. ’ ’ 

“ You do not understand me,” said Annida. “ That he did 
answer it, I know ; my surprise is that you did not receive his 
letter.” 

“How do you know that he answered it?” asked Elsie, 
falteringly. 

“Because I saw him hand the letter to Miss Marston,” said 
Annida. “ She dropped it upon the floor, and I read your 
address in Mr. Weston’s handwriting.” 

“It must have miscarried then, I suppose,” said Elsie; “so 
many of my letters went astray during the siege,” and she tried 
to speak calmly, that Annida might not guess what a difference 
that letter might have made in her life. 

“But it was written some time before the siege,” persisted 
Annida, “and you received and answered one of Maude’s 
letters which must have gone with it — if it were sent.” 

“ Did you not say it was? ” asked Elsie, in surprise. 

“ I only said I saw Miss Marston receive it,” replied Annida, 
evasively. 

“ Is not that the same thing? ” said Elsie, coldly. 

“Not exactly,” said Annida. “Miss Marston may have 
neglected to post it.” 

“ Nellie would never have forgotten so important a commis- 
sion,” said Elsie, decidedly. 

“No, I do not for a moment suppose that she forgot it,” 
said Annida, “but she may have had her own reasons for re- 


33*5 


o’er moor and fen. 


taining it. As it is, you know, she is Mr. Weston’s wife, and 
she might have missed her present happiness had that letter 
reached its destination.” 

“ Annida ! ” exclaimed Elsie, starting to her feet and recoil- 
ing as though a serpent had stung her, “ why do you tell me 
all this now, when you know the information can bring no 
good with it to any one ? Why do you try to force upon me 
the knowledge of that which I had better never know? Why? 
because you love to promote unhappiness — because you live 
only in others’ miseries ; but you shall not triumph in my 
woes — I will not listen to another word — I will forget all you 
have said, and never, never shall you persuade rrtfe to distrust the 
purest and best woman that ever lived.” 

“Don’t put yourself in such a passion,” began Annida, but 
she said no more, for, true to her word, Elsie had beat a pre- 
cipitate retreat. 

“The seed is sown,” laughed Annida, as she prepared to 
return home ; “ you may run away, my little lady, but you can- 
not leave your thoughts behind,” and this was, alas ! only too 
true. Wherever she went, and whatever her occupation, her 
mind still returned to this troublesome subject, and she tried to 
fathom the mystery which hung around the fate of that all- 
important letter. At times she thought she could bear her 
troubles better, could she only read it once and be sure that 
Roy had loved her, and then again she prayed that she might 
never see it lest her heart should break at the knowledge of the 
love that she had lost. 

The sudden change which came over her did not escape her 
husband’s watchful eye, and he pondered deeply over it, won- 
dering sadly if he had in any way induced it. St. Evremond 
had become very popular, not only in the Von Decker family, 
but with all of their acquaintances, who esteemed Elsie a most 


o’er moor and fen. 


337 


fortunate young woman in having drawn such a prize in the 
lottery of life. He was, indeed, a man calculated to shine in 
any society, — literary, political, or social, — for his life had 
been devoted to self-culture, and all the time he had been able 
to spare from his military duties had been passed among his 
books, or in the study of mankind from its best model — man 
himself. His manners were perfection, uniting to a soldierly 
bearing the gentle deference df a courtier ; and his interested 
attention to what was said to him, be the speaker ever so hum- 
ble, was extremely flattering, and won him many friends. Jack’s 
prejudice was soon conquered, and his brother-in-law became 
his best friend. He could not but respect a man of so much 
mind, and his many ribbons and orders, all tokens of his mili- 
tary glory, together with his honorable scars, called for admira- 
tion from the younger man, to whom this phase of life was a 
sealed book. St. Evremond was not a man to glory in his own 
distinction, or repeat stories redounding to his own credit; 
but finding how eager the boys were for information as to a 
soldier’s life, he could always find in memory’s storehouse a 
few stirring tales, with which to beguile an hour or two of the 
sultry summer evenings. And even Elsie was drawn into this 
charmed circle at last. 

When she came, St. Evremond’s happiness was complete. 
Never did the words follow each other as rapidly as on these 
rare occasions ; never was the speaker so eloquent as when that 
silent figure reclined upon the greensward at his feet, and those 
beautiful eyes turned now and then their light upon him, as 
the interest of the story deepened, and the ringing voice 
and flashing eye of the hero of many battles seemed to com- 
mand her attention. 

But however great he appeared to the other members of the 
family, to his wife St. Evremond was as diffident as a school- 


338 


o’er moor and fen. 


boy. When these evening gatherings were over, and the party 
rose to retire, it was always Mrs. Von Decker who entered the 
house on his arm ; and although his good-night greeting was 
hearty to Elsie’s brothers and sister, he never spoke to her, 
unless she first noticed him. Sometimes, therefore, she would 
pass him by without a word, and he would make no effort to 
detain her ; and then, again, she would pause beside him for a 
moment and extend her hand, and he would take it timidly in 
his own, scarcely daring even to press it, as he stammered a 
good-night. 

Thus the time passed away, until the new house was ready 
for its occupants, and then a new dilemma arose in Elsie’s 
mind. Notwithstanding the approach of the time for flitting, 
St. Evremond had spoken no word to her on the subject, and 
she began to think that perhaps he did not intend to take her 
with him. She could scarcely tell at first whether this idea 
gave her pain or pleasure. It was certain that she had now no 
particular interest in Beechcroft, nor much in life beyond little 
Lorraine, to whom she had become very much attached ; and 
yet would it be possible for her to live alone with her husband 
on their present terms? — to pass days without speaking to each 
other ? The prospect was not alluring ; and, to add to her dis- 
comfort, the Westons had returned, and every day she was called 
upon to hear of or witness Roy’s devotion to his wife. 

She began, also, to distrust Annida’s story of the letter, and 
it distressed her to think that she had written him so candid a 
confession of her feelings, when he had been so far from re- 
turning them. He could never have loved her — of that she 
had no doubt — or how could he have greeted her so cordially, 
and expressed such frank admiration of her husband. What 
would he say — what would the world say, should St. Evre- 
mond leave her now, so soon after her marriage? Oh, she 


o’er moor and fen. 


339 


could not bear it ; and yet she had herself stipulated that she 
should be allowed to live her life alone. She recognized this 
fact, and yet she wished that he had consulted her, and not 
taken her wishes for granted. 

“ Elsie!” exclaimed Lorraine, bursting in one day upon 
these reflections, “ it is only a short time now, and then w^ 
will go into our new house.” 

“ Who will go, dearest?” asked Elsie, with beating heart. 

“ Papa and I,” answered the boy, “and you must come and 
see us, Elsie, every day. Oh, it will be so nice.” 

“ You will not take ijie with you, then ? ” said Elsie, pressing 
the boy closer to her throbbing breast, whilst with difficulty she 
repressed her tears. “My little brother, that I love so dearly, 
is glad to go away, and has no place for me in his beautiful new 
home. Ah ! Raine, would I have treated you thus ? ’ ’ 

The little fellow hung his head, and his eyes filled with tears. 
“It is not I,” he said ; “it is papa who says you will not care 
to leave your home, and all your brothers, for only him and 
me.” 

“But I have no home, Lorraine,” said Elsie, sadly, “ana 
I have one little brother for whom I would do anything, and 
leave every one, but he does not love me any more.” 

“I do love you,” said the boy, earnestly. “You must not 
say I do not.” 

“ Then how are we to live apart and be happy? ” said Elsie. 
“ I shall miss you every day, and cry for my little brother.” 

“Poor Elsie,” said the child, kissing her fondly, and then 
suddenly extricating himself from her embrace, he bounded off 
again. 

Elsie listened to his retreating footsteps with a sad smile. 
“It does not seem,” she said, “as though I were of much use 
in the world. Even this child, to whom I have devoted myself, 


340 


o’er moor and fen. 


is ready to leave me on the first opportunity,” and she drooped 
her head upon her hand and gazed drearily out of the window. 

Presently, however, she was roused from her reverie by the 
sound of approaching footsteps. Lorraine was returning, but 
there was a heavier step than his coming along the corridor, and 
Elsie knew, before they entered, that the child had brought his 
father with him. 

‘ ‘ Here she is, papa,” cried the boy, dragging him into the 
room. “ Now tell her that we will not go away without her. 
Ask her to come with us, papa ; do not leave my poor Elsie here 
alone.” 

The position was extremely embarrassing, and at first neither 
Elsie nor St. Evremond could utter a word — the former being 
Overwhelmed with confusion at the thought that Lorraine had 
repeated her words, and that she stood before her husband as a 
suppliant, praying to be taken to his home ; and the latter fear- 
ing lest the boy had been mistaken, and the wish had been 
father to the thought, that Elsie would go with them. 

“Why don’t you speak, papa?” said the boy, impatiently, 
looking from one to the other in surprise. 

“Because I do not know what to say, my boy,” said St. 
Evremond, “ for I scarcely think that Elsie requires to be told 
how much she will add to our happiness by coming with us, 
and she knows better than yourself why it is that I have not 
asked her. Run away now, though, and I will say all that you 
wish.” 

Thus adjured, Lorraine departed, and St. Evremond turned 
to Elsie. 

“What is it that the child tells me, Madame?” he said. 
“ Are you really willing to leave Beechcroft and accompany me 
to my new home ? Do not do so from any sense of duty, for I 
do not expect it of you. When we married, it was expressly 


o’er moor and fen. 341 

understood that the ceremony was simply a form, and that I 
was never to take advantage of the authority with which it in- 
vested me. I accepted this rendering of it, and the fact that 
when I did so, I thought myself on the eve of certain death, 
makes my vow no less binding. You are free, Madame, from 
every vow which you have taken to love, honor, and obey, and 
if you would also resign the name you bear, I will leave you 
now, and as soon as may be your wish shall be fulfilled.” 

“ I do not wish to resign your name,” said Elsie, falteringly, 
“ neither would I be free, if you do not yourself desire it. I am 
no companion for you, I well know, and, as I have told you, I 
have no heart to give, but I also have no longer any interest in 
life, and my strongest wish is to do my duty towards you. 
Take me to your home, therefore, if you will, and I will labor 
and strive to do all that I can to make you happy.” 

St. Evremond sighed deeply. “You s})eak so sadly,” he 
said, “ that it almost breaks my heart to hear you. You are 
barely eighteen, and yet life is over for you ? Ah, no, dear child, 
this must not be. Do you think, then, that I will accept this 
sacrifice? You have not understood me. Let me explain, 
and do not be wounded at my recalling to your memory a con- 
fidence you once gave me. 

“You said to me, in the little chapel, 4 My heart is dead ; I 
have nothing now to do with love,’ but then you thought your- 
self unloved ; is it that on your return you find that you de- 
ceived yourself, and that the jeune Monsieur is still true? ” 

Elsie hid her burning cheeks in her hands, and trembled 
violently. 

“Nay, do not weep,” he said, gently; “there is still a 
remedy, if this be so. The law can separate that which the 
church has joined, and — you may still be happy. You do 
not know what this offer costs me,” he continued, and his usual 
. 29 * 


342 


o’er moor and fen. 


round, full tones deserted him. “I am offering my life for 
yours ; but better that, ten thousand times, than to watch you 
fading, dying by my side — the fetters with which I bound you 
eating into your soul — when it is too late to save you. ’ ’ 

“It is too late now,” said Elsie, speaking with an effort. 
“ He of whom I spoke is bound by vows no less solemn than 
my own — he is married also, Monsieur.” 

“Poor child,” said St. Evremond, laying his hand tenderly 
upon her head. “ Then you shall come with me, and I will do 
my best to dissipate your sadness. You must never be afraid,” 
he added, “ but confide in me always ; for although I may 
seem at times to be hard and cold, I have seen life, and I know 
what it is to love — and — to have no hope.” 

Thus, then, it was settled, and shortly after Elsie left Beech- 
croft once more, but this time forever. It was on a beautiful, 
bright summer’s day, when she first entered her new home. 
Nature seemed to have sympathized with St. Evremond in his 
desire to please his young wife, and to have opened her store- 
house of beauties to assist in the endeavor. 

St. Evremond assisted Elsie to alight when they reached the 
door, and leading her into the house, he showed her a pretty 
suite of rooms opening into the garden. 

“These,” he said, “are your own. We began life at the 
wrong end, by marrying without a proper courtship, so now we 
will reverse the situation, and I will court my wife. Behold, 
Madame,” he continued, taking her hand and kissing it, “the 
most ardent of admirers, and the most faithful of friends, who 
will be yours so long as life shall last.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


343 


CHAPTER III. 

FIRING THE MINE. 

“ Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, 

Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.” 

R OY married Eleanor Marston more from pique than any 
other feeling, and he certainly did not deserve the happy 
lot into which he stumbled, as it were, blindfold ; but fortune 
does not always honor the brave ; on the other hand, she seems 
to positively enjoy surprising the human race — now crowning a 
life’s labor with disaster, and anon plunging some ne’er-do-well 
into the sunshine of prosperity. 

There is this much, however, to be said in Roy’s favor, that , 
having drawn a prize, he did not, like many men, shut his eyes 
to the fact, and pass his life in wilful ignorance, “ entertaining 
an angel unawares.” No, he soon discovered what a treasure 
he possessed, and to his love, which grqw daily, he added a 
contrite desire to promote the happiness of this girl, whose pure 
true love he had made use of to cover his wounded pride. 

Nellie’s was a character difficult to comprehend, unless inti- 
mately known. She was so sensitive and reserved, and her best 
and warmest feelings were often buried in her heart so deep, 
that they never found vent in words. She was like a delicate 
rose-bud, with all its petals hidden within its bosom, awaiting 
the kiss of the sun to unfold its beauties, and her husband 
became intoxicated with delight, as, expanding in the warmth 
of his affection, she each day discovered some new grace, or 
revealed to him some hidden charm. 


344 


o’er moor and fen. 


“Where have you hidden yourself all these years?” he 
asked her, playfully. “Had I known you earlier, I should 
never have loved Elsie.” 

“ Take care,” said Nellie, laughing joyously, “ that is almost 
more than I can credit.” 

“It is a fact, nevertheless,” replied Roy. “Elsie is, per- 
haps, more beautiful than you are — although I begin to doubt 
even that — but Elsie is flesh and blood, and you, Nellie — you 
are an angel.”' 

Nellie blushed and hid her face upon his breast. “ Do not 
flatter me,” she said, softly; “a husband and wife should be 
friends as well as lovers, and a true friend should not stoop to 
flattery.” 

“I am only saying what I really think,” replied Roy. 
“ There are very few persons who know you, Nellie, you hide 
your true self so completely. Even I doubted at first if you 
were capable of loving any one intensely — ’ ’ 

“And now?” said Nellie, looking up for the completion of 
the sentence. 

“And now,” continued Roy, folding his arms around her, 
“ I know that beneath a calm exterior there lies a slumbering 
volcano, but — an angel guards it, Nellie.” 

This conversation had taken place before Elsie’s return, and, 
despite Roy’s assurances, Nellie could not but feel anxious, 
when he was once more exposed to her influence ; but as the 
days passed, and she found him still her own, her fears were 
allayed, and she sank into a blissful state of security, seeming 
to forget that human happiness is mutable. Beneath most of 
the flowery paths of life, however, trains of gunpowder are 
lying, awaiting only the lighting of the match to blow the 
unwary wanderer into atoms ; and Eleanor’s was no exception 
to the general rule. 


o’er moor and fen. 


345 


The combustible material was there — the explosion, therefore, 
was inevitable ; but it was sad that fate should have chosen Ar- 
thur’s hand with which to light the match. 

Thus it came to pass. Annida, with Pandora’s fatal curiosity, 
determined to discover what part she still retained of Arthur’s 
heart, and how far Nellie had undermined her power. She was 
piqued that whilst he refused to visit her, alleging as a reason 
that she was married, and had no need of other society than 
her husband’s, he was constantly with Nellie, and her marriage 
seemed but to have riveted their friendship. 

There was a gathering at the Marstons in honor of Roy 
and Eleanor, and here, at last, Annida succeeded in forcing 
Arthur to an explanation. He had retired to the doctor’s office 
to avoid the noise and glare of the parlors, for he was, like 
most poets, variable in his moods, and to-night the sound of 
revelry jarred upon his sensitive nerves. He would not have 
come at all, had he not promised Nellie to do so, and, after 
having spoken to her, he felt that his duty for the evening was 
over, and determined to solace himself with a book. 

He had but just taken one of the doctor’s volumes from its 
shelf, and was idly turning over the pages, when a slight rustling 
attracted his attention, and on looking up he perceived Annida 
coming towards him. 

A dread presentiment of evil seized him, and had flight been 
possible, he would have made a cowardly retreat ; but she stood 
between him and the door, and, without rudely pushing her 
aside, he could not leave the room, so he resigned himself to 
his situation, and rising, politely asked what he could do for 
her. 

“ Give me your seat first,” she replied, with a smile, “and 
then find yourself another. ’ ’ 

He complied with her first request, and pushed his chair to- 


346 


o’er moor and fen. 


wards her, but he remained standing, even after she was 
seated. 

“ Will you not sit down ? ” she asked, imploringly. “ I have 
so much to say.” 

“ I cannot think that Mrs. Strathmore has anything to say to 
me which I may not hear standing,” he replied ; “my time is 
limited ; I have work to do this evening, and it would not be 
worth while for me to sit down again.” 

“I would make it so, Arthur,” she said, leaning slightly 
forward and fixing her eyes upon him searchingly; “ I would 
make it so, if you would let me. If you will but give me one 
short half-hour of your time, I will tell you all about myself, 
lay bare my soul before you, and if, after having heard all, you 
still condemn me, you shall be my judge, and I will accept my 
punishment ” 

“I do not wish to hear your confession, madame,” said 
Arthur, sternly; “lay bare your soul before your husband’s 
eyes, and accept his verdict. Happy would it be for you 
could I be your judge, but there is one, even the most high 
God, before whose tribunal you must one day stand to answer 
in the spirit for the evil done here in the flesh — make your 
peace with Him.” 

“You are cruel,” said Annida, wincing under his words. 
“ Who are you to preach of God, and repentance, when you 
do not fulfil the first of the gospel laws, and forgive your 
wrongs? The Son of God forgave His enemies when they 
reviled and mocked Him, and you are merciless though but 
human, and to a repentant woman who cries to you from her 
heart, ‘ I have sinned, I have sinned,’ but I will kneel to you, 
Arthur, if you will then reach your hand to me in token of 
forgiveness.” 

She bowed her head before him, her breast heaved with 


o’er moor and fen. 


347 


genuine emotion, and at a kind word she would have thrown 
herself at his feet; but Arthur remained unmoved, and cold 
and stern came his reply: “I have forgiven you — I forgave 
you long ago, and had wellnigh forgotten you, had you not 
thus forced yourself upon my notice.” 

“You had wellnigh forgotten me!” exclaimed Annida, 
starting up with flashing eyes ; “ you, who once worshipped the 
ground I trod on ! Ah ! I am amply compensated for my 
years of tender and devoted love. Go on — do not spare me ; 
tell me that ‘ you had wellnigh forgotten me ’ in the love of 
another woman, of her whose saintly habits, and pious church 
goings are but blinds to the onlookers, and whose husband is 
no restriction on your intercourse, as you have falsely pleaded 
mine. Speak up and tell her name ; or if you will not, I will 
do it for you. The woman for whom you have left me is 
Nellie — ” 

“Hold!” exclaimed Arthur, in a voice of suppressed 
passion, and springing towards her he seized her arm. “You 
are a woman, it is true ; but, by heaven, you shall not desecrate 
the name of the best and purest creature that God ever made. I 
shall place my hand over your mouth if you attempt to speak 
again, so be silent and listen to what I have to say. I do love 
Eleanor Weston, as a man may love the angels, and I breathe 
her name, as a little child his prayers, to drive away the evil 
spirits with which you filled my soul. You drove me to de- 
spair, she ministered unto me ; for your sake I would have sent 
my soul to hell, but she brought it back and laid it at her 
Saviour’s feet; out of a great darkness she caused the light to 
shine, and gave me once more a life to live ; and whilst I move 
and breathe, that life is hers to command and hers only. I 
think our half-hour has expired ; allow me to bid you good 
evening,” and before she had recovered herself, he was gone. 


348 


o’er moor and fen. 


She went back to the ball-room and danced and smiled away 
the hours. Never had she looked handsomer or been more 
admired, and no one dreamed that she hid beneath her gayety 
a deadly purpose of revenge. She had been hard struck — both 
pride and love had suffered, but she made no sign, lest her prey 
should be forewarned of her approach and so escape the toils. 

A few days after this she called at the Westons. “Nellie, 
dear,” she said, “would you object to looking at some of El- 
sie’s old letters from Paris, and settling a dispute between Mr. 
Strathmore and myself as to the precise date of her letter 
mentioning the siege? ” 

Of course Nellie did not object, but sent at once for her 
desk, from whence she took a bundle of letters, tied together 
with a blue ribbon. 

“True blue; a lover’s knot,” said Annida, picking up the 
package which Nellie had laid down, after having selected the 
letter desired. “ How devoted you and Elsie have always been 
to one another.” 

Before Nellie had time to answer, the letters had fallen from 
the string to the floor. “ How stupid of me ! ” exclaimed An- 
nida; “but there ! don’t trouble yourself, I ’ll pick them up,” 
and she was down on her knees in a moment, gathering them 
together. 

“ How many ought there to be ? ” she called out from under 
the table. “Two, four, six, eight, and one is nine. Is that 
right ? ’ ’ 

“Yes; thank you,” said Nellie, holding out her hand to 
receive them. “ It was too bad for you to have had to pick 
them up; but here is the date at last, as a reward,” and she 
read it out to Annida, after which she put the letters away in 
their hiding-place, never dreaming of the serpent which lay 
concealed in one of them. 


o’er moor and fen. 


349 


That evening Elsie received a note. “ I have found the miss 
ing letter,” it said. “ Eleanor Weston has it!” Long she 
pondered over this remarkable missive. At first she felt in- 
clined to discredit it; but, although there was no signature, 
she knew the note was from Annida, and Annida was not the 
woman to assert that which she did not know. Even though 
the information were correct, then, she asked herself, of what 
use was it to her ? Should she go to her false friend and accuse 
her of the theft ? What would it avail her ? The woman who 
would betray a friend would not hesitate to hide her fault by 
lying. Should she take the note to Roy, and ask an explana- 
tion? To what end? What purpose could it serve, save to 
part him from his wife, whom he both loved and trusted ? He 
had said that he was happy, and Nellie, — yes, she was happy 
also in his love, and, although she had been so hardly used, 
Elsie could not find it in her heart to take this mean revenge 
upon one who had been so dear to her up to the present hour. 
She read the note once more, slowly, to impress its meaning on 
her mind, and then she tore it into minute scraps, determining 
that the secret should never pass her lips. 

It was a noble resolve, but it availed not to avert the coming 
catastrophe. The match was lighted, and no human power 
could extinguish it, for that same evening Roy suddenly ap- 
peared before her, as she sat idly dreaming in the garden, and, 
without further preface, asked, abruptly: “Elsie, did you re- 
ceive a letter from me whilst you were in Paris ? ’ ’ 

The color left her cheek, she trembled violently, and turned 
her head away without speaking. How could she tell him the 
truth without exciting his suspicions ? 

“Answer me, Elsie,” he continued, with a faltering voice; 
“and if you can say ‘yes,’ ah ! for God’s sake, say it.” 

He knew a 1 !, she felt convinced, from his agitation. Further 

30 


o’er moor and fen. 


350 

concealment, therefore, was impossible, so she answered, sadly : 
“l would I could say what you wish to hear, but I did not 
receive your letter, nor did I know that you had ever written 
to me, until a few days ago. ’ ’ 

* 4 And how did you hear it then ? ” asked Roy, eagerly. If 
Nellie had confessed to her friend, he felt that he could forgive 
her with less difficulty, than if she were still cherishing her un- 
happy secret. 

“ I will not tell you that,” said Elsie. “You already know 
more than enough. Do not seek to be too wise ; ignorance 
sometimes is indeed bliss.” 

“You, also, then know where the letter is,” he said, huskily. 

She made no reply. “You shall have it, Elsie,” he went on ; 
“it is yours, and you shall have it, if it is where we have heard 
it is.” 

“No, no,” said Elsie, passionately; “do not try to find it, I 
implore you. It is of no use now. Our lives are fixed — 
nothing but death can release us from our vows. Let the dead 
past bury its dead. You were happy yesterday ; be so again 
to-morrow, and forget to-day.” 

Roy looked as though he did not comprehend what she was 
saying. A dark cloud rested on his face, which was resolute 
and stern. “I am going to find that letter,” he said, “ if I 
break my heart in doing so.” 

“ But you have more than yourself to think of,” wailed Elsie. 
“ Think of me, Roy, and, oh ! think of your wife ; she loves 
you so dearly — the temptation was so great. Ah ! forgive 
her, Roy, forgive her for my sake. ’ ’ 

“ Never ! ” said Roy, starting to his feet. “ If this be true, 
Elsie, and a fearful foreboding tells me that it is, I will never 
call her wife again, so help me God ! It is of no use for you 
to plead,” he continued, as she raised her hands in supplication 
to him, “ I will not listen to a word more.” 


35i 


o’er moor and fen. 

“But you maybe mistaken,” pleaded Elsie. “ Do not be 
hasty, Roy — weigh well what you are about to do. Where did 
you get your information? ” 

“ I might answer you in your own words,” said Roy, bitterly, 
“and say that I would not tell you, but it is of no consequence 
one way or the other. I received this note.” 

Elsie took it from his hand. It was but a fac simile of her 
own, except that it mentioned what he had not known before, 
that Elsie had never received his letter. 

“ My information came by note also,” said Elsie, “ and the 
handwriting is the same. Do you know, Roy, this gives me 
fresh courage,” she continued, with animation; “this looks 
like a preconceived plan — it may be the work of an enemy to 
separate you from your wife. Take this note direct to Nellie, 
and listen to her explanation. Be gentle with her, Roy, what- 
ever the issue.” 

“ 4 Blessed are the peacemakers,’ ” said Roy, taking her hand 
in his and looking down at her with emotion. “ I will do 
your bidding, Elsie, and you shall know the result before very 
long.” 

“Go, go at once,” said Elsie, trembling violently, “and 
whatever happens, Roy, do not trust yourself here again. ’ ’ 


352 


o’er moor and fen 


CHAPTER IV. 


IN THE WEB. 


“ And to be wroth with one we love. 
Doth work like madness in the brain.” 


OY strode home at a rapid pace. He felt that there was 



Xv no rest for him until he had cleared the mystery in which 
his wife was shrouded, and determined therefore to ascertain 
the truth at once. 

Before he reached the house he heard Nellie’s voice singing 
in the garden, and turning in that direction, he came upon her 
as she watered her flowers. “ Be gentle with her for my sake,” 
came the echo of Elsie’s voice, but, indeed, no such inter- 
cession was needed, for at sight of his wife with her delicate 
beauty and large spiritual eyes, Roy’s heart sank within him, 
and he felt as though he were about to arraign a saint for 
stealing. 

“ She could not have done it. It is impossible,” he said to 
himself, as she advanced to meet him, her face bright with a 
joyous welcome. 

“You are back early,” she said, leaning caressingly upon 
his arm. “ I did not expect you so soon. Did your horse 
prove unruly ? ’ ’ 

“I did not go out on horseback,” said Roy; “ the distance 
was so short, I walked.” 

“Walked to Beechcroft?” said Nellie, in surprise. . 

“No, not Beechcroft,” said Roy; “I did not get so far as 
that, I went over to see Elsie.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


353 


“Indeed ! ” said Nellie, looking still more surprised. “Why 
did you not tell me you were going there, and I would have 
gone with you. It has been some days since I last saw Elsie.” 

“To tell the truth,” said Roy, gravely, “I did not care to 
have you, Nellie. I went over on business of a very disagreea- 
ble character, and I am not sure that I would not have done 
better had I stayed at home. Certain it is that you alone can 
unravel the mystery, and I wish now that I had first applied to 
you. ’ ’ 

Roy looked anxious and careworn. Never had Nellie seen 
such trouble expressed in his face. “ Come into the house, dear,” 
she said, gently, “and tell me all about it. I am not much 
used to unravelling mysteries, but it must needs be a hard knot 
that we cannot untie together,” and she led him in to his com- 
fortable study, placing him in the easy chair covered with the 
work of her skilful fingers, and then took her place on a stool 
at his feet. 

“ Now,” she said, smiling gayly up at him, “ ‘ two heads are 
better than one, even if one is a blockhead,’ so let us explore 
this mystery.” 

Roy shaded his eyes with his hands, that he might not see 
her innocent, bright face, for every moment his tale became 
harder to unfold. 

“It is something very sad I have to tell, Nellie,” he said, 
huskily; “turn your eyes from my face, dear — they seem to 
burn into my soul.” 

“Go on,” said Nellie, in grave wonder, “I am looking out 
of the window.” 

“You must ransack your memory, Nellie,” he continued; 
“ you must take yourself back over a space of time, and answer 
me a question, and however hard it may be. for you, you must 
tell me nothing but the truth. ’ ’ 

30* 


X 


354 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ Have I ever told you anything else? ” said Nellie, flushing 
slightly; “you dishonor me, Roy, by making such a requisi- 
tion.” 

“Words, words are nothing ! ” exclaimed Roy, passionately. 
“Give me proof, Nellie, that you have never deceived me. 
Did you or did you not post a letter given you long ago by me 
for Elsie?” 

He sat upright now, and his eyes seemed to search her heart, 
striving to read there the answer she would give. Nellie’s 
breath came quickly, and she looked up at him in alarm. 

“ Why do you ask that question now, Roy? ” she asked. 

“ Because I have only just discovered that she never received 
the letter,” said Roy; “but you evade the question — did you 
or did you not post it ? ” 

“You know I did, Roy,” she said, falteringly. “ I told you 
at the time that it had gone with one of Maude’s.” 

“Then you will not object to giving me that package of 
Elsie’s letters to examine, Nellie,” said Roy, looking con- 
siderably relieved. “ I have been told that the missing letter 
is among them, and I must see that it is not so. ’ ’ 

“You will not accept my word for it?” asked Nellie, in sur- 
prise. “Roy, I do not know you to-day, you are so unlike 
yourself. ’ ’ 

“Bring me the letters, Nellie, at once,” said Roy. “I tell 
you I must examine them, and the sooner this disagreeable 
business is over the better it will be for all concerned.” 

“Roy,” said Nellie, gravely, “I will not give you Elsie’s 
letters. I have never shown them to any one, and I do not 
think you ought to ask it.” 

“Nellie,” said Roy, sternly, “sentiment is ill-placed when 
so much hangs in the balance. I must have those letters ; I owe 
it to Elsie, as well as to you and myself, to investigate this mat- 


o’er moor and fen. 


355 

ter thoroughly, and if you will not give them to me, I will take 
them.” 

He rose as he spoke and stood before her, awaiting her 
decision. The color had entirely faded from her face, and her 
eyes looked supernaturally large and strange. 

“I will not give you Elsie’s letters,” she said; “you may 
rob me of them if you will.” 

Roy hesitated for a moment. “ Give them to me, Nellie,” he 
said once more; “do not force me to so despicable an action,” 
but she did not move or speak, and striding across the room, 
he seized and broke open the little fancy desk which contained 
her treasures. She uttered a cry as the lock gave way and 
everything fell out in a confused heap upon the table. She 
seemed to be in a horrible dream, and she hid her face in her 
hands that she might not see her husband so far forget what was 
due to his wife, as to search for proofs of her veracity among 
her private papers. 

Roy heard the cry, and he trembled as he took the letters in 
his hand. “Poor darling,” he thought, tenderly gathering 
up the other trifles and replacing them with care, “I will just 
glance over the letters without reading, and then restore them 
to her. She suffers, but I must be firm.” He sat down beside 
the table, and opened the envelopes one by one, only enough 
to satisfy himself that they contained only one letter, and his 
spirits rose as he neared the bottom of the heap without making 
any discovery. Suddenly, however, he became deadly pale, 
and he gazed at the envelope he held, as though he had seen 
a spectre. At a suppressed exclamation from him, Nellie raised 
her eyes and looked. Incredulous horror was depicted on his 
countenance as he slowly drew out his own letter, written so 
long ago, and every word of which breathed devoted love for 
Elsie. He sank back with a groan, and his head fell upon his 


356 


o’er moor and fen. 


breast. Nellie, scarcely less horrified than himself, sprang to 
his side. 

“What is it, Roy?” she gasped. “Have you found it? — 
was it really there? ” and then, as she saw it in his hand, she 
threw herself upon her knees beside him, exclaiming: “Oh, 
my darling ! oh, my darling ! you must and shall believe me, 
when I say I did not know it. ’ ’ 

“Do not perjure yourself,” said Roy, in a strange, hard 
voice. “Yesterday I would have sworn to anything on your 
mere word, but henceforth no oath that you could take would I 
believe. My God ! to think how you have wrecked our lives 
— -mine and that poor child’s over yonder — and her last words 
to me this morning were : ‘ Be gentle with her, Roy, for my 
sake.”’ 

“Roy, Roy,” said Nellie, cowering before him, “be mer- 
ciful. You stab me with your words. If you do not wish to 
see me die at your feet, do not say such bitter things. You 
wrong me ; before heaven, I say you do. So pause ere you say 
more, lest you pass your life repenting the present moment.” 

“‘Be gentle with her for my sake,’ ” said Roy, rising slowly 
to his feet. “ Aye, for her sake I will spare you ; but, wretched 
woman, beware how you approach me in the future. You have 
ruined me, but you shall not profit by my ruin.” 

He rushed away and left her kneeling at his chair. She 
raised her hand and drew it dreamily across her forehead. 
What did it all mean ? Was it indeed her husband who had 
just gone out ? was it his voice still ringing in her ears, cursing 
her from his presence ? Had he gone forever from her life, — 
he, l\er joy, the one thing that made that life of value ? And 
the letter — oh, how had it ever been placed among her papers? 
Could she have forgotten and put it there herself? And thus 
she crouched upon the floor, and thought and thought, her poor 


o’er moor and fen. 


357 


brain growing dizzy with the effort to solve this dreadful enig- 
ma, until Arthur, entering, found her there, and raised her to 
her feet, looking at her in blank amazement, as she whispered, 
eagerly : 

“ I am mad, am I not ? Oh ! won’t you say that I am mad ? ’ 


CHAPTER V. 

“o’er crag and torrent.” 

“ For of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these — ‘ It might have been.’ ” 

I T was the evening of this day of troubles, and Elsie sat 
quiet and pensive at the open window of her little parlor, 
which commanded tjie finest view of any room in the house. 
St. Evremond had ridden over to dine with a neighbor, and she 
was alone, save for little Lorraine, who had remained up after 
his usual hour, and was now fast asleep, with his head upon her 
knee. 

She had been sitting thus for an hour or more, seriously re- 
flecting on her position and the thorns which beset her path, 
and, as she grasped them, these thorns seemed to be less prickly 
than usual, and she even thought, that here and there among 
them she could detect a flower, rearing its delicate head. She 
was surprised to find herself less moved than she had expected 
by the revelation of the afternoon, and still more amazed at 
the discovery that she was criticising Roy’s conduct, and in- 
wardly comparing him with her husband, greatly to the disad- 
vantage of the former. 


353 


o’er moor and fen. 


She could not but disapprove of Roy’s readiness to condemn 
his wife, nor help wondering that he should have told her his 
suspicions, before he had heard what Nellie had to say in her 
own defence. Would St. Evremond have acted thus? No: 
she could not for a moment picture her generous, noble-hearted 
husband as accepting the evidence of an anonymous note against 
her, and revealing his wrongs to a third party, before he had 
given her an opportunity to contradict the statement. Even 
had the charge proved true, she felt convinced that no human 
being would ever have known it, but that he would have buried 
his grievances within his heart, and with noble magnanimity 
have stood beside the woman he had made his wife, shielding 
her, however guilty, from the condemnation of the world. 

Would he have uttered that fierce “ Never ! ” with which 
Roy had treated her prayer for Nellie’s forgiveness? Ah, no; 
she had seen him too often receive his little son back into his 
arms after some misdemeanor, not to know that, although he 
would be firm with a delinquent whilst impenitent, the first con- 
trite word wduld serve to open the portals of his large heart, 
and full forgiveness would follow swift upon confession. 

She had never thought so deeply upon these subjects as to- 
night, although she had been much happier since she left 
Beechcroft than before, for her husband had been untiring in 
his efforts to please and interest her, and life had seemed to 
have still some object left in it to live for ; and now, as she 
reflected oh his character, and the purity and beauty of his 
daily life, she was conscious of a new and strange tenderness 
springing up within her- heart, and a longing that he would 
soon return, it seemed so lonely there without him. 

Even as the \yish passed through her mind, she detected a 
manly footstep in the hall, and although, owing to the precious 
brrden in her lap, she could not rise, she turned her face 


o’er moor and fen. 


359 


expectantly towards the door, and had St. Evremond entered 
then, the shy, wistful, tender greeting of her eyes would have 
gladdened his heart, and shed sunshine on his life forever. Ah, 
if there was but some good angel to tell us when to come and 
when to go, how many lives would wear a different coloring ? 
He did not come, and in his place Roy entered, like a dark 
spirit of evil and discontent, into an abode over which peace 
and rest were just spreading their protecting wings. 

There was no light in the room save moonlight, but the 
corner where Elsie, sat was as bright as day. The moonbeams 
streamed in through the open window, forming a charmed 
circle around her, bringing out her beautiful fair face in vivid 
lines from the surrounding darkness, adding a deeper sweetness 
to the hazel eyes, and causing the golden hair to shine like the 
halo round the pictures of the saints. 

To Roy, in his overwrought condition, there was something 
weird and unearthly in her beauty, and with a pang of jealous 
agony he recollected that she belonged to another, and that 
but for Nellie’s treachery she should now be all his own. The 
thought nearly drove him mad. 

“ Elsie,” he exclaimed, coming forward and kneeling beside 
her in the shadow, “it is all true — all true. Here is the 
letter — I found it among her things — read it, and tell me 
how I shall support my life.” 

“Roy,” she said, gently, as he laid it in her hand, “why 
should I read this now ? It can be of no use to us, and it may 
do harm. Let me destroy it, and we will forget that it was 
ever written.” 

“No, no,” said Roy, fiercely; “you distrusted me, — you 
believed that I was false. You owe it to me to read this letter, 
and do me tardy justice. Read,” he continued, opening it 
and thrusting it once more into her hand, and then he leaned 


360 o’er moor and fen. 

his bowed head against the chair until it nearly rested on her 
shoulder, and they read the letter, word for word, together, 
whilst the child lay still and slumbered on her knee. 

My darling (thus it ran), what shall I say to you in return 
for your precious note, which lies nestled on my breast next my 
heart, where I would I could lay your golden head, and tell 
you without words how the love of my life is yours. Can I 
forgive you, do you say, my sweet one ? Ah, there is no crime 
I could not overlook, were my lips once pressed to yours ; but 
now I rave at you, myself, and destiny, that so many dreary 
miles of land and sea should separate us, and that the precious 
hours which were ours for loving intercourse were wasted in 
misunderstandings and idle bickerings. Oh, had I but known 
what I now know before we parted — could I but once have 
heard your sweet lips utter what your note tells me, — “Roy, I 
love you,” — this dreadful separation could be better borne; but 
now months, years (centuries they will seem), must elapse ere 
I can hold you in my arms and answer your sweet confession 
with tender caresses, and burning, passionate words of love. 
It makes my heart sick to think of it. How can my feeble pen 
express the half of what my soul would say ? Oh, my darling ! 
Oh, my Elsie ! my love reaches out to you across the waters, 
my soul embraces yours ; stoop your dear head and listen whilst 
I whisper, that for this world and the next, my heart, my soul, 
my love is yours, forever and forever. 

Thus the letter ended, and in the silence which ensued, Elsie 
could hear the beating of the heart of the man beside her. She 
dared not look at him, she dared not speak — her whole soul was 
in tumult, and she dreaded, adding by a spark, to the fire that 
was consuming him. 

“For this world and the next, my heart, my soul, my love 
is yours, forever and forever.” 

The words were repeated softly in her ear — so low they were 
but a whisper — but his hot breath fanned her cheek, his burning 


o’er moor and fen. 


361 


hand was on her own, and what wonder was it that they both 
forgot the present in the past, and dreamed that time had 
paused for them since that letter first was written. 

His hot kisses rained upon her face. “My darling,” he 
said, “ we must never part again. I have left my home 
to-night forever, and it would be an outrage against nature for 
you to live another day beneath the roof of this cold-blooded 
man, who calls you wife. I leave you to-night, only that I may 
make arrangements for our flight, and to-morrow — to-morrow 
you shall be all my own.” 

Again he would have pressed his lips to hers, but, with a 
cry, Elsie pushed him from her and pointed to the child. He 
lay in her lap as quiet as before, but the soft dark eyes were no 
longer closed, and from their shadowy depths looked out an 
angel of purity, peace, and innocence, which drove the devil 
from his vantage-ground, and gave poor Elsie still a day of 
grace. 

“ You must not kiss my Elsie,” said the boy, in his childish 
treble tones ; “ even papa does not do that.” 

“He has seen and heard everything,” exclaimed Roy, sotto 
voce ; ‘ we are lost if we cannot silence him,” and he uttered 
an oath beneath his breath. 

Elsie shuddered, and placed her arms protectingly around 
the child, as though to guard him from the malediction. 

“See here, my boy,” said Roy, “you must never say such 
words as those again. I was not kissing Elsie, and if you ever 
dare to say so, I shall know how to punish you.” 

He leaned over the child as he spoke, and so fierce and 
desperate did he look in the moonlight, that the little fellow 
clung to Elsie in terror, crying: “ I will not tell anything that 
you do not wish me to, Elsie ; but won’t you send that man 
away ? he frightens me. Oh, I wish — I wish papa would come. 
V 


o’er moor and fen. 


362 

Elsie pressed him closer to her heart and gently soothed him, 
whilst a deep sense of shame came over her at the ignoble part 
Roy was playing, in wooing her thus beneath her husband’s 
roof, and frightening a baby into silence. 

“ I beg that you will go away,” she said, in an agitated voice. 
“ Do you not see the child is frightened ? ” 

“ What care I for the child? ” said Roy, fiercely. “ Is there 
to be ever something thrust between me and my love? I will 
not move from here till you have sworn to meet me to-morrow 
on the ferry-boat. Come, Elsie, do not waste the precious 
moments. God knows we have suffered enough from procras- 
tination. I know your heart is mine — this night has shown me 
that, at least. You have gone too far to recede, my darling. 
Not all the waters of Lethe could obliterate this last half-hour 
from our lives. Speak, Elsie, and tell me you will come.” 

He paused for an answer, and the silence of the night was 
broken by the sound of horses’ feet approaching over the even 
road to the house. 

“ Papa! ” exclaimed Lorraine, raising his head and clapping 
his hands. 

“Roy! Roy! for heaven’s sake leave the room,” cried 
Elsie, clasping her hands together in an agony. 

“Swear! ” said Roy, standing erect before her. “Do you 
think I am goin^ away empty-handed ? Swear ! or, by all that 
is holy, I shall stay and tell my story to his face.” 

The sound of steps came nearer. Elsie pressed her hand 
against her heart. Was what Roy told her true ? Had she in 
that moment of weakness forever barred against herself her 
husband’s heart? Alas ! it seemed so, for how could she daily 
meet his perfect trust and confidence, with the secret of this 
evening hidden in her heart ? or how could she bear his stern, 
inquiring glance, should Lorraine .ever betray what he had seen ? 


o’er moor and fen. 


363 


But there was no more time for thought — the horse was at the 
door, and Roy still stood before her, as silent and fixed as a 
statue, awaiting her response. 

“Go,” she said, with difficulty articulating her words. “I 
will meet you to-morrow. You have forced me to it. May 
God forgive you! ” and Roy, with an exclamation of delight, 
sprang through the open window, as St. Evremond slowly 
crossed the hall to bid his wife good-night. 

“ Darling,” she said, stooping over the child, “the man has 
gone away. Do not mention him to papa, and I promise he 
shall never come again.” 

“I will not tell papa a word about it,” said the trembling 
boy, “ not even if he ask me : then I will say I do not know, 
I was asleep. ’ ’ 

“ Teach him to scorn deceit, to hate a lie.” Were the words 
really spoken ? No, it was conscience whispering in her heart, 
upbraiding Elsie for her broken trust, and scalding tears fell from 
her eyes upon the child, as she thought of his father’s first and 
last request, so sadly disregarded. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A RAY OF HOPE. 

“ You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, 

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.” 

I T was with difficulty that Arthur could glean, from Nellie’s 
incoherent account, what had actually occurred, and even 
after he had mastered the facts, it was impossible for him to 
understand them. 


364 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ You posted the letter when it was first given to you,” he 
said, looking very much puzzled, “ and yet Roy discovers it to- 
day among your papers. Well, there is only one way of ex- 
plaining such a phenomenon — some one must have stolen it 
and put it there. Can you think of any one who could have 
done it? ” 

“ No,” said Nellie, shaking her head hopelessly. “ Perhaps 
it is as Roy thinks, and I put it there myself.” 

“ Roy is a — fool,” said Arthur, impetuously, “if he is 
nothing worse. The idea of any one in his senses supposing 
for a moment that you could do such a thing. * ’ 

“ He has every reason to think so,” said Nellie, in a dreary 
voice, “as long as I cannot account for having the letter still 
in my possession.” 

“He has no right to believe it, though all the world stood up 
in evidence, with your word against it,” said Arthur, fiercely. 
“I wish,” he added, with lowering brow, “that he had only 
imparted his suspicions to me in the first place ; he would not 
have repeated them, I can assure you.” 

“And Elsie will believe it, too,” said Nellie. “Oh, Ar- 
thur, I am very unhappy.” 

“ Elsie ! ” exclaimed Arthur. “You don’t mean to say that 
he has taken her into his confidence? ” 

“He took the letter to her,” said Nellie, falteringly; “he 
thought it was his duty to let her see it, and explain the cir- 
cumstance.” 

“Explain to Elsie,” cried Arthur, starting to his feet in a 
rage. “This passes all forbearance. See here, Nellie; I was 
going to waste my time in an examination of this case, to ease 
both your and Roy’s mind, but, by heaven, Roy don’t deserve 
it. If he is in such a hurry to condemn you, let Kim do it ; do 
not demean yourself by offering an explanation.” 


o’er moor and fen. 365 

“Arthur,” said Nellie, gravely, “you forget that you are 
speaking of my husband.” 

“And has he not forgotten he was speaking of his wife?” 
replied Arthur. 

“Two ‘wrongs’ never yet made a ‘right,’ ” said Nellie, 
gently; “ whilst I live, no word of complaint against him shall 
pass my lips.” 

“ I know that,” said Arthur, tenderly. “You would, if you 
could, persuade yourself that you had really stolen the letter.” 

“Would to God I could,” said Nellie, sobbing bitterly. 
“ Oh, Roy, Roy, I wish I had died before you had so unjustly 
suspected me.” 

Arthur turned away and rushed up and down the room, pull- 
ing his moustache fiercely to hide the quivering of his mobile 
mouth. “Nellie,” he said at last, pausing before her, “the 
fact is you ought never to have married — you are too good for 
any man on earth ; and now that you have discovered this fact, 
for heaven’s sake, child, get unmarried as fast as possible.” 

“ ‘ Those whom God hath joined together,’ ” sobbed Nellie, 
without raising her head. 

“‘Let no man,’ etc., etc.,” said Arthur, renewing his 
march. “ I know all about that, and I am not going to advise 
you to get a divorce ; but — your father and mother are in 
New York for some days, are they not ? Well, go to-morrow 
and join them, and if I am not mistaken, Master Roy will 
come to his senses, when he returns home and finds his hearth 
deserted.” 

“I think I had better go away for a little while,” said Nellie, 
thinking with a shudder of Roy’s parting words ; “ but, Arthur, 
you will not stay here alone and meet Roy, will you ? you are 
so excited, and I don’t think you understand him.” 

“ Probably not,” said Arthur, with a ghost of a smile, “ nor 
31* 


366 


o’er moor and fen. 


do I care to. I should like to stay here and force him to eat 
his words ; but, as you say, he is your husband, and I have no 
right to interfere as long as you permit him to abuse you. Give 
me the note you spoke of, and I will go at once.” 

Nellie rose and handed him Annida’s note, which still lay 
upon the table where Roy had dropped it, and, glancing at it, 
Arthur uttered an exclamation of surprise and horror. 

“ Good God ! ” he said ; “ will that woman never weary of 
her wickedness?” and then he sat down and leaned his head 
upon his hand, losing himself for a time in painful reflection. 

“ Who is it that you speak of, Arthur? ” said Nellie. “ Do 
you know that handwriting ? ’ ’ 

“I do,” said Arthur, slowly, “and it behooves us to act 
cautiously, Nellie, for you have fallen into bad hands. This is 
the work of the fiend who wrecked my life, and she would ruin 
yours now, because you are my friend.” 

“Annida Strathmore!” exclaimed Nellie, in surprise; “but, 
Arthur, she has always been on friendly terms with me.” 

“ No doubt,” replied Arthur; “she never 4 barks’ before she 
i bites ; ’ but, mark my words, she knows more of the letter 
and how it got among your papers than you do yourself. Think, 
Nellie, has she had access to them lately ? ’ ’ 

Nellie’s face flushed, and a look of joy flashed into her eyes. 
“Arthur,” she said, “how can I thank you for that happy 
suggestion ? I feel sure that you are right, for Annida had 
Elsie’s letters only a few days ago.” 

“ Ah, ha ! ” said Arthur, triumphantly; “ the subject becomes 
interesting. Tell me everything that you can recollect, Nellie, 
and we will see if we cannot put together the pieces of this 
puzzle. ’ ’ 

With the hope of discovery before her, Nellie at once be- 
came collected, and with a slight effort of memory she repeated 


o'er moor and fen. 


367 

all that she knew about the letter from the time she first re- 
ceived it up to date, and Arthur sat before her taking notes of 
all she said, and growing more hopeful of his case every 
moment. 

“ There,” he said, rising from his seat when she had finished 
her recital, “ I have not a doubt, Nellie, but that we are on the 
right track. Annida stole that letter, I am certain of it, but we 
will show her more consideration than has been shown to you; 
and not condemn her without proof. And now, good-night. 
I cannot sleep until I have laid my plans, and it is growing late. 
I shall meet you in New York to-morrow, dear, and God grant 
that I may have some cheering news for you.” 

It was but eight o’clock when Arthur left her, and there were 
still two precious hours before the last ferry to New York, so he 
hastened at once to Beechcroft, determining to see ff Maude 
could give him any information. 

Poor Maude ! The clouds were gathering thick around hci , 
and everywhere she turned she heard the mutterings of the 
coming storm. Of late her life had been made up of sorrows. 
Roy’s marriage had been the first crash of thunder, and quickly 
on it followed the news of her father’s death ; then Elsie had 
returned, and there was a temporary lull. Soon, however, her 
heart was racked again, for her mother, never very strong, 
began slowly to decline in health, and day by day she faded ; 
still gentle, queenly, and gracious to the very end, nor seeming 
to know that she was ill, it was piteous to her daughter to watch 
the gradual change, and feel that almost her last tie to life was 
being sundered. 

There were outside troubles also to perplex her, and for the 
first time she was called upon to think of money, and realize 
its value. Jack and Roy, who had proved themselves good 
sailors with their captain at the helm in Wall Street, now found 


368 


o’er moor and fen. 


themselves at sea without a compass, and it seemed not at all 
unlikely that the good ship would founder. Jack’s sunny face 
grew dark with anxiety as loss followed loss with frightful 
rapidity, yet he knew not how to turn the tide, nor even drop 
his anchor ; so they drifted helplessly along, watching the wind 
and weather. 

It had been some time since Arthur had seen Maude, and he 
was unprepared for the change which had taken place in her. 
She looked so pale and sad, and her agitation was so great 
when he explained the motive of his visit, that, had it not been 
for Nellie that he was working, he would have left without 
accomplishing his purpose ; but he had promised her some 
cheering news, and if Maude could give it, he must have it. 

Maude was unutterably wretched. How could she confess 
her share in the theft of the letter and draw down upon herself 
the contempt and aversion of the only man she had ever loved ? 
and yet Arthur told her that Roy’s happiness depended on her 
frankly disclosing all she knew, and could she refuse to make 
him happy ? 

“You must not hurry me,” she said, at length, nervously 
clasping and unclasping her thin white hands. “ I will tell you 
this much now, that I know who took the letter, and it was not 
Nellie Marston ; but for further information, you must wait until 
I am more composed.” 

“Will you write that statement down and sign it?” said 
Arthur, eagerly; and, after a moment’s demur, Maude con- 
sented, and he departed with this scrap of comfort in his 
pocket. 

“If my cousin wishes to know more,” she said, as he left 
her, “let him come himself and ask me.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


369 


CHAPTER VII. 

SCIENCE AND RELIGION. 

“ *T is the divinity that stirs within us — 

’T is heaven itself that points out an hereafter, 

And intimates eternity to man.” 

A BOUT this time a great change occurred in the Stevenson 
family. “The book” was published, and met with a 
most astounding success. There was a demand among the 
public for scientific scraps, and, as a? book of reference, Mr. 
Stevenson’s was unrivalled. All those who wished to appear 
wise without the trouble of acquiring knowledge, bought it and 
read it carefully, extracting here and there “the honey” which 
had caused the author so many weary months of labor, as we 
lazy mortals take the work of the industrious bee to satisfy the 
idle taste of the moment, without a thought given to the time 
he has expended on it. Edition after edition sold rapidly, and 
Mr. Stevenson became not only famous, but wealthy. 

“So your old stones are yielding crops of golden guineas,” 
said Jack to Bob one day. 

“ How could they help it,” replied the laughing girl, “ when 
watered by the family’s tears? Tom and Joe have emptied 
gallons of brine upon those fossils.” 

This addition to their income relieved Roberta of consider- 
able anxiety, and life would have gone with her “ as merry as 
a marriage-bell,” had it not been for Augustus, whose health 
seemed rapidly declining. Day by day she watched his lan- 
guid footsteps grow more feeble, his fair skin more transparent, 

Y 


370 


o’er moor and fen. 


and her heart died within her as the fear damned upon her that 
God had heard the boy’s oft-repeated, oft-rejected prayer, and 
would take him to Himself, and slake his thirst for knowledge 
in the fountain of the living waters. 

“ Do not fret,” he said to her one day, “ I shall soon know 
more than* father does. None of them, however learned, can 
see beyond the grave, Bob,” and Bob turned away to hide her 
tears, lest she added to his troubles, distress for hers. 

But other eyes than Bob’s had seen how fragile the boy 
looked, and Dr. Marston’s kind heart was touched by the hope- 
less patience of his face, as, day by day, he labored at his father’s 
side at uncongenial tasks, and, when released, sat wrapt in 
ecstasy at the old church-organ, drawing wondrous melody 
from its well-worn chordg ; or kneeled in the churchyard at his 
mother’s grave, watering the flowers that his tender hand had 
planted. 

“Old Stevenson will kill that boy,” he muttered to himself 
one day, as he paused to watch him at his task. “ I don’t sup- 
pose it will be of any use, but I think I ’ll step around and 
speak to him.” 

Mr. Stevenson was asleep in his study. He had gone there 
to write, but the afternoon was sultry, the flies troublesome, 
and he had ended by seating himself in his easy chair beside 
the window, to catch the breeze rising from the river, and, as 
I have said, he fell asleep. 

Perhaps he was dreaming of a falling star, or a newly-dis- 
covered fossil, or he might have been in search of Mr. Dar- 
win’s missing link ; but be that as it may, we shall never know 
the truth of it, for he was suddenly interrupted in his nap by the 
entrance of Dr. Marston, and rudely brought back to sublunary 
affairs by the remarkable question, prbpounded energetically : 

“Stevenson, do you want to kill that' boy of yours?” 


o’er moor and fen. 


37 * 


“ Kill my boy ! ” exclaimed the old gentleman, starting from 
his recumbent position. “A — ahem! which boy, my dear 
sir? ” he continued, as though the particular child would make 
a difference in his answer. 

“Augustus,” replied the doctor. “You must surely have 
observed how ill he is looking.” 

“He is not quite well,” said Mr. Stevenson; “but I fail to 
see how I am the cause of his ill health.. I try to make my 
boys happy.” 

“Well, if you will excuse the frankness of an old friend,” 
said Dr. Marston, “ you go about it in a very poor way.” 

“'I don’t understand you,” said Mr. Stevenson; “pray be 
more explicit. What fault have you to find with me?” 

“Just this,” said the doctor, “that you do not sufficiently con- 
sider your childrens’ individualities, and you endeavor too much 
to influence their inclinations. These inclinations, my friend, 
are the most obstinate things in creation. They cannot even 
be bent in the twig. I believe children are born with them ; 
and you might as well amputate an infant’s foot, and compel 
it to walk on one, as to put a boy in a groove of your choosing, 
and expect him to run as on oiled wheels. The baby would 
eventually hop along, without doubt, but it would be a cripple ; 
and the boy would go the way he was driven, but the friction 
would w^ar him out.” 

“ The metaphor is good,” said Mr. Stevenson ; “ be so kind 
as to point the moral.” 

“The sting of a wasp is in its tail,” said the doctor, with a 
good-natured smile. “ My moral is that Augustus is a martyr 
to friction. His inclinations are pulling him one way, whilst 
his father is driving him another, and in the battle between the 
two, the poor fellow’s strength is giving way. Why don’t you 
let your boy go into the church? ” 


372 


o’er moor and fen. 


A dark cloud gathered upon Mr. Stevenson’s face. “ I 
should think you would scarcely need to ask me that question,” 
he said, gravely, “knowing, as you do, my sentiments in regard 
to religion. Could I, as an honest man, suffer one of my sons 
to enter that order of hypocrites called the priesthood, who, for 
their own selfish ends, delude poor, ignorant humanity, with 
nursery tales of heaven, hell, God, and the devil ? ’ ’ 

“ There are one or two things to be considered before I can 
answer you,” said the doctor. “In the first place, are all 
priests hypocrites ? and in the second, is it an assured fact that 
heaven, hell, God, and the devil are delusions? ” 

“For an answer to the first question,” said Mr. Stevenson, 
“ you have but to cast your eye into the past. For how long a 
time did the earth groan and travail beneath the load of super- 
stition forced upon it by false men, who refused the light of 
reason, and persecuted truth? Look at Galileo, the most illus- 
trious man of his age, driven by an ignorant priesthood to 
abjure and curse the doctrine of the movement of the earth, 
kept under strict surveillance for the residue of his life, denied 
Christian burial at his death, and thrown into the earth like a 
dog. Look at Bruno — imprisoned, tortured, murdejed, be- 
cause, forsooth, he refused to believe that the world was flat, 
supported on pillars, and the sky a firmament, the floor of 
heaven. A thousand times rather let me have a Bruno ^for a 
son, than a Peter who could deny his Lord. The one died 
nobly for truth’s sake, the other betrayed his friend and bene- 
factor through pusillanimity.” 

“They were a blind, bigoted set, those old priests of the 
Inquisition,” said Dr. Marston, cheerfully; “we don’t want to 
make Augustus one of them ; but how much better are we, my 
friend, if we persecute our children because they will not think 
as we do ? Of what use is knowledge if it does not teach us to 


o’er moor and fen. 


373 

be liberal? We cannot all eat one food — we do not even all 
see alike ; who, then, is to tell his neighbor, ‘ This is truth ’ ? 
What says Anaxagoras ? ‘ Nothing can be known, nothing can 

be learned, nothing can be certain. Sense is limited, intellect 
is weak, life is short.’ ” 

“ Aye/’ said Mr. Stevenson, slowly, “we have no criterion 
of truth. The best of us must say with the disciples of Pyrrho, 
‘We assert nothing, no, not even that we assert nothing.’ ” 

“You are not prepared to assert, then, that there is no God ? ” 
said Dr. Marston. 

“There is no need of one,” said Mr. Stevenson; “nature is 
sufficient in herself.” 

“But things exist of which neither you nor I see the need,” 
said Dr. Marston. “ The fact that you believe nature to be 
sufficient in herself, is no proof that God is not.” 

“ No,” said Mr. Stevenson, reluctantly. “ The non-existence 
of an infinite being cannot, of course, be proved.” 

“There is a doubt on the subject, then? ” said Df. Marston. 

“Assuredly,” replied Mr. Stevenson. 

“ Then give your Creator the benefit of the doubt,” said the 
doctor, rising ; “ satisfy your son’s longings, and take him 
from his^ unhappy reveries in the graveyard before it is too 
late. Good-bye, old friend, and forgive my interference in 
your private affairs. I saw the boy lying on the damp grass as 
I passed the church just now, and I felt that I must speak whilst 
there was time. ’ ’ 

The doctor went his way, and Mr. Stevenson tried once 
more to settle to his work, but his friend’s warning would not 
be put aside, and he found his mind wandering to Augustus’s 
pale face, and vague fears took possession of him lest he should 
lose this boy, who was, above all, his favorite, owing to his 
likeness to his mother. 

32 


374 


o’er moor and fen. 


He rose and went to the door. “Roberta,” he called, 
“ where is Augustus ? ” 

“I think he has gone to church, papa,” was the timid 
response; “but if I can be of any use in his place — ” The 
sentence was unfinished, however, for her father had already 
left the house. 

He walked on hurriedly to the church. Afternoon service 
had begun, but Augustus was not there, and turning aside into 
the churchyard, his father began a search for him among the 
graves. He had not long to look, for, not far from the entrance, 
lay the boy with his head pillowed on his arm, and his dreamy 
blue eyes fixed on space. 

His father stole upon him unawares, nor noticed whither his 
steps were leading him, until, as he stood beside the grassy 
mound covered with a carpet of bright flowers, he read, between 
the garlands on the headstone, “Sacred to the memory of 
Catharine Stevenson,” and then, a little way below, “ Mors 
mihi lucrum ” (“ Death to me is gain ”). 

He sighed heavily, and looked once more at the boy. It 
seemed as though the dead had risen from her grave ; not as he 
had seen her last, worn and weary with the strife of life, but in 
the beautiful bloom of youth, when he had first met her and 
won her love. Certainly Augustus was very like his mother. 
Was the same doom hanging over his head ? must he watch him 
also go down into the grave ? ’ * 

“ Augustus ! ” he exclaimed, “ you must not lie on the damp 
grass; you will take cold.” 

August started up and looked about him in surprise. 
“Father!” he exclaimed, as his eyes fell upon him, and the 
word spoke a volume of astonishment. 

“Dr. Marston has just left me,” continued Mr. Stevenson, 
“and he says that you come too frequently to this unhealthy 


o’er moor and fen. 


375 

spot. You must discontinue the habit ; I cannot allow you to 
undermine your constitution in this way.” 

August grew very white. “ I hope, sir,” he said, pleadingly, 
“ that you will not forbid my coming here occasionally; I assure 
you it does me no harm, and — and these are my happiest 
hours. ’ * 

“ And why should they be, sir?” said his father. “It is a 
curious place to come for recreation. Why do you not occupy 
yourself like others of your age ? Take a gun or a fishing-rod 
and amuse yourself reasonably. What profit or pleasure do you 
find in lying on the grass and looking at the clouds ? ’ ’ 

“ I do not come here for that purpose,” said August, coloring 
slightly, “ and I will promise not to lie again upon the grass, if 
you will allow me still to tend my flowers. They will all die 
if I do not care for them.” 

“Put your flowers in your garden,” said Mr. Stevenson, 
“ and you can do what you like for them.” 

“This is my garden,” said the boy, leaning sadly over the 
grave. “ Here lies the most precious flower that ever graced 
our lives, father. * ’ 

It was a moment before Mr. Stevenson could speak, and even 
when he did, his voice was broken. 

“Augustus,” he said, “ you cannot too tenderly respect your 
mother’s memory, but your affection for this mound of earth is 
mere sentiment, and of a most unhealthy sort. Death is a 
stern, cruel, resistless power, and sweeps from us often that 
which we would give our own lives to retain, but it is the 
inevitable sequence of life, one of nature’s immutable laws, and 
as such we must accept it, nor brood like children over our 
losses. ’ ’ # 

“Ido not brood over my loss,” said August, raising his 
bright eyes to his father’s; “it would be both wicked and 


o’er moor and fen. 


376 

foolish to do so. 4 1 heard a voice from heaven, saying, blessed 
are the dead who die in the Lord : even so saith the Spirit, for 
they rest from their labors.’ ” 

“Who shall say that they rest?” said Mr. Stevenson, gloom- 
ily; “who can tell that they must not, in the course of time, 
repeat their lives, according to the laws of nature, and perhaps 
in this next condition suffer misery unspeakable ? ” 

44 Who, indeed, could tell us this, save He who rose from 
the dead?” said August ; 44 He who said to the dying thief, 
4 To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise? ’ ” 

44 Paradise,” said Mr. Stevenson, musingly; 4 4 that is the 
4 fairy land ’ of children of larger growth, and has no place 
save in fiction. It is not beneath our feet, for it is the earth, 
we stand on; it is not over our heads, for the blue canopy 
above us is nothing but stellar space. Could your eye pierce 
the vapor which lies betwixt it and yourself, your paradise 
would be found as dark as Erebus, owing simply to the absence 
of all floating matter capable of diffusing light ; but this vapor 
is like a poet’s fancies, rising from earth to heaven, changing 
the darkness to a soft cerulean blue, and peopling with fantastic 
shapes, what but for.it, were a dark, impenetrable void.” 

44 1 think paradise is very near,” said the boy, dreamily; 
44 it is around and about us everywhere. The angels appeared 
suddenly to the watching shepherds, not as though they had 
travelled far to find them.” 

44 Then the kingdom of God is upon earth?” queried Mr. 
Stevenson. 

44 ‘Behold the kingdom of God is within you/ ” said August, 
solemnly; “these were the words of one, of whom the soldiers 
said, 4 Never man spake like this man.’ ” 

44 If His kingdom be on earth, wherefore, then, did your 
Christ ascend ? ’ ’ asked Mr. Stevenson. 


o’er moor and fen. 


377 

<( He ascended into Heaven, from whence He came,” replied 
August. “ Heaven is above us.” 

“Heaven and hell are then in stellar space,” said Mr. 
Stevenson, scornfully. “It is quite remarkable that science 
does not find some trace of the existence of these worlds; one 
would suppose that they must needs have some place in the 
Solar systems. ’ * 

“And how do you know that they have not?” asked 
August. 

“Because,” said Mr. Stevenson, “astronomical observations 
show us that through certain universal laws of attraction and 
repulsion, each planet keeps its place, and you must see for 
yourself that the existence in the universe of a celestial body, 
large enough to hold all the inhabitants past, present, and to 
come, of not only our own globe, but of all the other countless 
worlds which gem the sky, could scarcely fail to be known 
through the powerful effect it would exert upon the solar 
systems. ’ * 

“ Science,” said August, with a smile, “ is like a schoolboy 
standing by the ocean, and bounding it with the line of the 
horizon, because he can see no further. Perhaps, when age 
has brought experience, it will find that what in youth it called 
the universe, was in magnitude but as a single star, when com ■ 
pared with God’s creations — system upon system, each revolv- 
ing round its little sun — universe upon universe, revolving 
round a glorious centre, the heaven of the heavens, the throne 
of the most high God.” 

“The idea is ingenious,” said Mr. Stevenson; “it is, how 
ever, no more than a suggestion — you have no proof to offer 
to substantiate it.” 

“ I have more proof of the fact that there is a heaven than 
you have that there is not,” said August, eagerly ; “for has not 
32* 


37 § 


o’er moor and fen. 


the Son of God testified of it ? And what can science adduce 
to the contrary, save the commonplace objection, ‘ I do not 
see it ? ’ We do not see the wind, we do not see an echo, and 
yet we know that there is both wind and echo.” 

“The Son of God!” said Mr. Stevenson, slowly. “My 
boy, be no longer blinded by such foolish superstition. Throw 
off these Popish leading-strings, think for yourself, and face the 
truth. There is no God ! ’ ’ 

“My father,” said August, in a sweet, low voice, “I am 
blinded by no superstition. Have you not taught me yourself 
the great laws of nature ? And what other teachers have I had 
save her and my mother’s Bible ? I know very little, and will- 
ingly confess my ignorance, and i.f science, whilst she says 
what is not, will but tell me that which is, I will yield my 
feeble knowledge at once and follow in her wake ; but, although 
she says ‘There is no God, nature is sufficient in herself,” she 
does not tell me who made nature so self-sufficient. And 
whilst she tells me that the world was formed by the commin- 
gling of minute atoms, forming molecules, which, according to 
the laws of attraction and repulsion, built themselves one upon 
the other, she does not answer when I ask ‘ Who made these 
laws? who first started these atoms into action? ’ I admit all 
the truths that science has revealed, but I say the creation of 
the universe is Godlike, the mystery of life is Godlike. Man 
must worship, my father. If you would take my God from 
me, you must give me another. ‘ Go, search diligently, and 
when ye have found Him, bring me word again, that I may 
come and worship Him also.’ ” 

“The mystery of life is inscrutable,” said Mr. Stevenson, 
gravely. “ Some say that heat is sufficient in itself to produce 
it, and others say that the clashing together of these molecules, 
which compose nature, resulted in the vital spark.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


379 

“ That force which produced life was divine,” said August. 
“Tell me, therefore, father, where it is, that I may worship it. 
Could dead atoms produce life ? Let me then bow the knee to 
oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, carbon, and phosphorus. Was it 
indeed heat or light ? Then let us be fire worshippers. It was 
none of these? No. Then what was it but the breath of God? 
Ah ! father, I say to you, as Christ to the woman of Samaria, 
4 Ye worship ye know not what ; we know what we worship.’ ” 

‘Man worships knowledge,” said Mr. Stevenson. 

“And yet how little does he know,” said August. “See 
how laboriously he climbs the mountain side ; see how he strug- 
gles towards his goal, and just as the highest peak is neared, 
just as the sun seems bursting forth, his foot slips, his time has 
come, and he goes down into the darkness, to make way for 
another weary worker, who gets but a few steps further, before 
he, too, meets his fate.” 

' “ Aye, death is the enemy of knowledge,” said Mr. Steven- 
son, gloomily. 

“Not so,” said August, energetically. “Death is but the 
opening of the door to everlasting truth. In this world we are 
but blind men, groping after light ; but when death, who is 
God’s messenger, shall have laid his hands upon our eyes, we 
shall no longer ‘ see through a glass darkly, but then face to 
face.’ ” 

“You firmly believe, then, in a future state?” asked his 
father. 

“This life but foreshadows the next,” said August, “as 
spring betokens the advance of summer. What saith Christ ? 
< Ye can discern the face of the sky and of the earth ; but how 
is it that ye do not discern this time ? ’ ” 

“You believe also in the resurrection?” asked his father. 

“ ‘ I know that my Redeemer liveth,’ ” said August, “ ‘ and 


o’er moor and fen. 


380 

that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And 
though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh 
shall I see God, whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes 
shall behold, and not another.’ ” 

“If, then, you rise with this body you now have,” said Mr. 
Stevenson, “ you will again be subject to decay? ” 

“I did not say that this identical flesh and blood would rise 
again,” said August. “‘Thou sowest not that body which 
shall be, but bare grain ; it may chance of wheat, or of corn, 
or of some other grain, but God giveth it a body as it hath 
pleased Him, and to every seed his own body.’ ‘There is a 
natural body and a spiritual body. ’ ‘ It is sown a natural body 

— it is raised a spiritual body. ’ ’ ’ 

“ How can matter become spirit? ” said Mr. Stevenson. 

“ Why should you suppose that it does? ” said August. “ If 
the kingdom of God is within us, may it not be this ‘ spiritual 
body ’ which stamps its impress on our faces ? May it not be 
born in us, increase with our years, and grow with our growth ? 
When I look at you, my father, I see but one man, and yet in 
reality how many have you within you? First we have your 
image in the rough skeleton, and that is one ; next in the 
muscles, and that is two ; again we find you in the delicate 
tracery of the veins, which is three ; and in the brain and nerves 
is still a fourth you. If, then, there are four forms which I can- 
not see, within one that I can, why should there not also be a 
fifth, a spiritual form, in perfect accord with the other four?” 

“ It has never been discovered that any such thing existed,” 
said Mr. Stevenson; “all we really know is that the body re- 
turns to that earth from whence it came.” 

“Aye, and that is all that the finite mind will ever know, if 
it confines itself to facts,” replied August, “ and makes no effort 
to rise above what it sees. Of what use is the knowledge of 


o’er moor and fen. 


381 

what is, if it does not lead us to draw conclusions from it of 
what may be ? My father, you might as well endeavor to per- 
suade me that these flowers are not in bloom, as that this fair 
lily lying beneath the sod will not one day be with her Lord in 
paradise, bearing the same form and face which we knew and 
loved here, but in her spiritual body, which shall know neither 
corruption nor decay. ‘ There is one glory of the sun, and 
another glory of the moon, and another glory of the stars,’ 
but the highest glory of all, my father, is the glory of God, and 
‘ the life of the world to come. ’ ’ ’ 

“ Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 

Lead Thou me on ; 

The night is dark, and I am far from home — 

Lead Thou me on. 

• Keep Thou my feet ; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene ; one step enough for me. 

“ So long thy power hath blest me, sure it still 
Will lead me on 

O’er moor and fen, o ’er crag and torrent, till 
' The night be gone, 

And with the morn those angel faces smile 

Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. Amen.” 

It was the choir singing the evening hymn. The boys’ flute- 
like voices floated on the flower-scented air like angels’ whispers, 
whilst the red sun in the west sank slowly down to rest, giving 
each fleecy cloud a golden border, and resting like a heavenly 
benediction on the old man’s silver hair, and the golden brown 
locks of the young champion of the faith. 

“Roberta,” said Mr. Stevenson that evening, as she bade 
him good-night, “it would be well for you to look over your 
brother’s clothes, as he will go to the seminary next month ; and 
Roberta — ’ ’ 


/ 


s 


382 


o'er moor and fen. 


“Yes, papa.” 

“ Hand me the third book from the end of the second shelf 
before you go.” 

Roberta walked over to the bookcase, but paused as she read 
the title of the book her father had designated. 

“ Papa,” she said, timidly, “ have n’t you made a mistake ? ” 

“I think not,” said her father, looking up, and she thought 
she had never seen so gentle an expression on his face since her 
mother died. 

“Rut, papa, that is the Bible!” exclaimed the astonished 
girl. 

“Yes, my dear,” replied her father, “I know it is.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


THE FLIGHT. 


One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, 

So fast they follow — your sister’s drown’d.” 



LEAR and bright dawned the day on which Elsie was to 


V_^ leave her home, and as the gray dawn melted into day- 
light, she raised her head from her sleepless pillow, and glanced 
around the room, her eyes resting wistfully on the familiar ob- 
jects, which after to-day she should never see again. 

Who would occupy those pretty rooms when she was gone ? 
Would St. Evremond pack away the pictures, books, and orna- 
ments with which he had surrounded her, and, locking the 
chamber-doors, sternly forbid any one to ever mention the wife 
who had betrayed him ; or would he leave them all untouched 


o’er moor and fen. 


383 


— the shawl hanging over the chair, the slippers by the bed — 
just as she would leave them, and come there in the twilight 
with his little son, to talk of her and wish for her return? 
Tears filled her eyes as she thought that this might be, but she 
dashed them hastily away and arose and dressed, stifling as best 
she could her sorrow and remorse. 

She dropped into an open valise some necessary articles of 
clothing, and the others she laid carefully away in drawers and 
presses, and when at last her work was finished, she fell upon 
her knees beside her bed, and hid her face once more among 
the pillows. There was a knock upon the outer door ; at first 
she did not answer, but another and another brought her from 
her room to question who was there. It was Alphonse. Would 
Madame come to breakfast ? Monsieur wished to know — it was 
ready, and they only awaited her arrival to send it in. 

She looked hesitatingly around the room, and her eye rested 
on the chair beside the window where Roy had found her the 
night before. Could she face her husband with that interview 
still so fresh in her mind ? She shuddered ; no, Madame would 
not descend ; she would breakfast in her room — she had rested 
badly and was suffering from a headache ; so a tray was brought 
her with coffee and fresh rolls, and a little bouquet of flowers, 
with Monsieur’s kind regards, and a hope that she would join 
them presently in the garden. 

She drank the coffee standing ; she could not eat, and then, 
with trembling hand, she raised the flowers and kissed them. 
Her hand was feverish, her breath was hot, and as she held 
them they drooped and wilted on their stems. She put them 
down again upon her plate, saying, bitterly: “All that I touch 
I kill,” and then continued the preparations for her departure. 

She heard St. Evremond come out into the garden with Lor- 
raine ; they paused beside her window, and she listened with 
bated breath to hear what they were saying. 


3§4 


o’er moor and fen. 


“See, Lorraine,” said his father, “some one has ruined 
Elsie’s pretty flowers. I had these fuchsias placed beneath the 
window yesterday, and to-day they are lying in the dust, with 
all their leaves and flowers broken. The gardener thinks some 
one must have jumped from the window and crushed them. 
What do you think, my boy ? ’ ’ 

There was no answer, and trembling violently, Elsie approached 
the other window, and gazed at them from behind the curtain. 
St. Evremond had his little son by the hand, and was pointing 
to the flowers, but the boy was holding back, with his eyes fixed 
resolutely on the ground. 

“Do you think that any one jumped from the window?” 
continued St. Evremond, kindly; “don’t be afraid to speak.” 

“I don’t know,” stammered the boy. 

A sharp pang went through Elsie’s heart. He was true to 
her* but he had lied to his father, and she felt that, whatever the 
consequences, she would rather he had told the truth. 

St. Evremond looked troubled. He knew the boy was hiding 
something, but he never dreamed he was deceiving him. 
“Lorraine,” he said, at length, “I do not think that you 
would tell a lie to screen yourself from punishment ; therefore, 
tell me frankly, did you break those flower-pots ? ’ ’ 

“ No, papa.” This time the answer was firm and bold. 

“But you know who did? ” continued his father, looking at 
him keenly. 

“No, papa.” Now the answer was faint again, and Lorraine 
hung his head and blushed. 

“I cannot understand it,” said St. Evremond; “you look 
so guilty, Raine, and yet you speak so fair. But you have never 
yet deceived me, so I will believe you now ; but, remember this, 
that, whilst I will forgive any fault confessed, I shall be mer- 
ciless if you have told a lie.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


385 

They passed on, and, drawing back, Elsie hid her face in 
her hands. “It is well that I am going,” she sobbed; “I 
should have destroyed him as I did the flowers;” and then she 
hastily put on her bonnet, gloves, and veil, and turned to go. 

In the upper hall she paused a moment. It was used as a 
picture-gallery, and when she reached her father’s likeness, she 
raised her eyes to the dull canvas, saying: “Papa, you will 
not blame me. — you know why it is I go ! ” and then she hur- 
ried on again. Once more she stopped, however. In the hall 
below there hung an old gray plaid. It had been wrapped 
around St. Evremond when he was carried off the field, and 
now he used it when the nights were damp to spread upon the 
grass, as they sat together on the lawn. Lorraine called it 
“Papa’s friend,” and his father laughingly replied : “And not 
unlike papa, Lorraine, for it has seen much good service and is 
the worse for wear,” to which the boy replied, with spirit, 
“But it is a warm, true friend for all that.” 

“Aye, 4 warm and true,’ ” said Elsie, as she stood beside it 
now and recalled the words, and she laid her hand on it and 
caressed it, as though it were a sentient being. “ So kind and 
true as he has been to me. Oh, God, forgive me if I break his 
heart ! ” The words were broken by a sob. “ If I dared stay 
— oh, if I dared — but I must not think of that. Only last 
evening I was dreaming, dreaming of a happy life — only last 
evening I was hoping, hoping that the time might come when 
he would draw me closer, closer to his side, and I might rest 
my weary head upon his brave, true heart; now — now — ” 
She pressed her soft cheek convulsively against the coarse gray 
cloth ; bitter sobs came from the parted lips ; the tears were 
streaming from her eyes. “ Alphonse, who is that in the hall ? ” 
called St. Evremond ; and, like a startled fawn, she sped away. 

“George,” she said to the uadergardener, as she passed out 
33 1 


3 86 


o’er moor and fen. 


of the gate, “ if Monsieur asks for me, tell him I was obliged 
to go to the city, and had not time to tell him before I left.” 

“ Yes, mum,” said the man, touching his cap, “and if it ’s 
by the next boat you ’d go, you ’ll have to be afther hurryin’ a 
bit, for she ’s just roundin’ the corner this blessid minit.” 

‘ Elsie quickened her pace at this information, and reached 
the landing just as the boat was about to leave. The men were 
already drawing in the plank, and Roy, with wild anxiety de- 
picted on his countenance, was urging them to wait yet one 
moment longer. “ I expect a lady,” he said, imploringly. 

“All right; here she is,” said the captain, and just then 
Elsie stepped on board. 

At the entrance of the cabin was a woman dressed in black 
and closely veiled. She had followed Roy on board, and, after 
a moment’s hesitation, had chosen this seat, and seemed to 
divide her attention equally between the rows of life-preservers, 
which hung over her head, and the fire-extinguishers, at her feet ; 
but when he said that he expected a lady, she had involuntarily 
started, and now, as Elsie came up to her, leaning on his arm, 
the woman cowered down upon her seat, and seemed to be la- 
boriously spelling out the name of the maker on the buckets. 

“Darling,” said Roy to his companion, as they passed her, 
“why did you frighten me so? I was half mad with anxiety. 
I thought your courage had given out and you were going to 
disappoint me.” 

“ My courage never fails,” said Elsie, “and I always keep 
my word. I could not get away before.” 

“Well, I shall not scold, as you are here,” said Roy; “but 
if you had not come, Elsie, I should have jumped overboard 
and ‘ made an end on ’t.’ Shall we go in the cabin, or remain 
where we are ? ” 

“It is pleasant where we are,” said Elsie; “let us remain 


o’er moor and fen. 387 

here — the trip is but a short one.” So Roy brought a couple 
of camp-stools, and they sat down within view of the veiled 
woman, but too far away for her to catch what they were saying. 
She could see, however, the varying color of the lady’s face 
and the devoted love beaming in the gentleman’s dark eyes ; 
and, pressing her hand upon her heart, she tried once more to 
decipher the writing on the buckets. 

“ Smith and Dobson ! Smith and Dobson ! ” she said to her- 
self, mechanically, and then her heart cried : “ Oh, Elsie ! 
Elsie ! why could you not leave me my husband’s love? You, 
who are so beautiful and could have the world at your feet, 
why could you not spare, this one man’s heart? ” 

“And now, dearest, we must form our plans,” said Roy; 
“I have not been able to do much without consulting you. I 
have telegraphed for a carriage to meet us at the ferry, and then 
you must decide where we shall go first. By the way, where is 
your luggage ? ’ ’ 

“ I could not bring it with me,” replied Elsie ; “ I can send 
for it when I am ready.” 

“It is a pity you have nothing with you,” said Roy, “for 
the Europa sails to-day, and I thought we might have taken 
passage on her. I have a friend who expected to go by her 
to Liverpool; but his wife has been taken ill, and he will 
be glad, I know, to let me have his tickets. Could you not 
make some slight provision for your wants in the city, and meet 
me on the vessel ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes, I have some clothes in the city,” said Elsie, 
dreamily ; “I shall do very well.” 

“ It is the best thing we can do,” said Roy ; “for we must 
get out of the way for a little while, until the storm blows over. 
I suppose that Monsieur votre mari will at least inquire after 
you, and it is as well to be beyond his reach.” • 


388 


o’er moor and fen. 


“Oh, yes, he will inquire after me,” said Elsie, and a soft 
light stole into her eyes. 

“ Did you have much trouble in evading him this morning?” 
asked Roy. 

“No; I did not see him before I left,” replied Elsie. 

“It is better so,” said Roy. “We are nearing the city, 
Elsie,” he added, suddenly. “Soon, soon, my darling, we 
shall have left our past lives behind us, like an ugly dream, and 
have entered on a paradise of love. ’ ’ 

“Roy,” said Elsie, leaning towards him and speaking im- 
pressively, “have you considered well what you are about to do ? 
Are you in the delirium of excitement or do you comprehend 
that you are luring me from home and friends, and all that a 
woman holds most dear ? That you are bringing dishonor on 
a noble, good, and upright man, and leaving your true, devoted 
wife to break her heart? ” 

“I have no wife,” said Roy, fiercely, and raising his voice 
in his excitement, the words fell upon the ears of the veiled 
woman. 

“ Smith and Dobson ! Smith and Dobson ! ” she murmured. 
“ Oh, I wish that I was dead ! God ! God ! take pity on me.” 

“ How can you be so cruelly vindictive ? ’ ’ said Elsie. “ Even 
if Nellie had really wronged you — and you have her word that 
she did not — would it not have been through love for you she 
erred? It is less than human to cherish indignation against 
one who loves us, as she does you.” 

“Let us leave the subject,” said Roy, gloomily. “I wish 
to forget all that has passed since you and I were childish 
lovers. Let us go back to that time, Elsie, and begin our life 
anew together. See, we are almost at the shore.’’ 

“Roy,” said Elsie, “I will no longer deceive you; our 
paths lie together no farther than that shore. Not for all the 


o’er moor and fen. 


389 


love, the bliss, the honor, glory, power of the world, would I 
break poor Nellie’s heart, or bring a shadow on my husband’s 
name.” 

“Elsie, you are mad,” exclaimed Roy, growing very pale. 
“ What can you mean by such words? Have you not left your 
home with me forever ? How, then, can you leave me ? 
Your husband would not receive you now, did you return to 
him ; it is too late to save him from disgrace.” 

“And why is it too late?” said Elsie, fixing her eyes upon 
him. “ What have I done to bring disgrace upon him? Is it 
so great a matter that I should come to the city for a few hours 
on business ? or, that I should have met a friend on board the 
boat and conversed with him ? ’ ’ 

“You basely deceived me when you said that you must leave 
your husband, then ? ” said Roy, indignantly. “ What was the 
meaning of your words last evening? ” 

“I did not deceive you,” said Elsie, slowly. “What I said 
then, I still mean. I have left my husband, Roy, and his home 
will see me no more. Could I live with him, think you, acting 
a daily lie ? Could I meet his eye, accept his confidence, 
remembering last night ? I have gone from him, Roy, because 
I am unworthy of his love, but in my solitude I shall guard his 
name as Elaine the shield of Launcelot, and keep his honor 
bright with tears.” 

“But, Elsie, Elsie, think of me,” cried Roy. “Do you 
owe me nothing? My life will be a blank without you. The 
boat is at the dock — in a moment we shall land — for God’s 
sake, dearest — ” but his sentence was never finished. 

Aye, “the boat was at the dock.” Already the eager pas- 
sengers crowded to the front, each anxious to land before his 
neighbor. Here was a woman on household deeds intent, and 
there a child decked out in ribbons, bound for a holiday ; here 
33 * 


390 


o’er moor and fen. 


a man with care-worn brow, counting the gains of yesterday, 
and chafing that to-day’s earnings were not .yet begun, and 
there a young girl, blushing like a rose, and looking for her 
lover on the shore ; some leaning on the taffrail looking idly 
at the water, some brushing back disordered locks from bright, 
sunshiny faces, some cording boxes, sorting bags, and others — 
oh, bitter woe ! — resting carelessly against the cage, in which 
man had • imprisoned that savage, restless demon “Steam.” 
What was the first warning ? no one knew ; but suddenly, hiss- 
ing, crashing, boiling, bubbling, the monster broke his chains, 
and with a roar of triumph he burst his iron cage asunder, 
and rent the boat from stem to stern. 

Oh, the wailing and the weeping ! Oh, the cries to heaven 
for mercy ! The stumbling o’er the dead to reach the impris- 
oned living. And ’mid the strife and carnage, one sat in quiet 
patience, only whispering softly : “ Death is coming to me.” 

They fought and wrestled round her to seize the life-pre- 
servers, but she only watched and waited, saying, “ Death is 
coming to me.” 

“Can you swim?” said Roy to Elsie; “the flames are 
coming near us.” 

“ No, no,” she said, hurriedly. “ Is there no other plan of 
safety? Oh, to die — to die — so soon, and at the shore.” 

“If I had anything to tie you to,” he said, in great distress. 
“Ah, for the love of God, good people, give me a life pre- 
server. ’ ’ 

She heard the voice, the cry for help, and in one moment 
the silent watcher was struggling with her neighbor. “ Give it 
to me,” she cried, and fought, and tore, and wrestled, until the 
prize was wrested from the foe, and as Elsie, pale and haggard, 
stood looking at her fate, around her waist the cord was passed 
and nimble fingers fastened it behind. 


o’er moor and fen. 


391 


“S?ved, saved! ” cried Roy, seizing her in his arms, and 
springing from the deck into the dark waters below. “God 
in heaven bless you,” he shouted to their silent helper, and then 
struck out for shore. 

“ He blessed me ! he blessed me!” she murmured. “Ah, I 
am ready now to die.” 

“Turn on your back and float,” said Roy, seizing Elsie by 
the arm, and as she did so she looked up and back, and 
on the deck above her saw a slight pale woman, with the glow 
of youth still lingering round her. Her hands were clasped, 
her eyes were raised, and round her parted lips hovered a smile 
of more than human sweetness. 

A wild shriek rent the air. “ Eleanor ! oh, Eleanor ! ” wailed 
Elsie ; “ Roy, save her.” 

She heard the voice, and looked at them, love beaming from 
her gentle eyes. She waved her hand to them and whispered : 
“Death is coming for me,” and even as she spoke, a chasm 
opened wide before her, the flames rushed on her from behind, 
and she was seen no more. 


CHAPTER IX. 

COBWEBS SWEPT AWAY. 

“ Show us how divine a thing 
A woman may be made.” 

W HO could express Roy’s agony as he saw the waters 
close over Eleanor ? There are moments in which we 
seem to live years, so great is the amount of suffering com- 
pressed into them, and to him the short time that elapsed be- 


392 


o’er moor and fen. 


tween landing Elsie in safety and returning to the wreck 
seemed an eternity. 

Horror, remorse, pity, love, strove within him as he searched 
fruitlessly among the floating timber for her whom he had 
called his wife. Numberless were the pale, fixed faces, staring 
upwards from the water, but none bore her features, and at last, 
totally exhausted, he once more returned to the shore, to sit in 
silence and watch and wait as one by one the recovered bodies 
were brought up for recognition. 

Hour after hour he sat there — no further thought of Elsie 
crossed his mind. Ever present with him was that last sweet 
smile, and he felt as well assured that Eleanor was innocent of 
what he had accused her, as that she had now passed beyond 
the reach of his repentance. 

The evening closed in, but he moved not — he would stay 
there to the end ; sooner or later she must be brought to shore, 
and a chill horror rushed over him as he thought of how he 
would see her next. It was no matter ; he would hold the wet, 
cold figure to his heart, he would pray forgiveness of the sense- 
less form, he would rain kisses on the pale blue lips, and then — 
he would kill himself, for he was not fit to live. He was a 
murderer, he had killed his wife, and as the law would not 
recognize the fact, he must take justice into his own hands, for 
Nellie should be avenged. 

Some one came up to him and flashed a light into his face ; 
he did not raise his eyes. The figure stood beside him, and at 
last a deep voice said : 

“ Where is your wife, Roy Weston ? ” 

He started and shuddered. Was the voice from within or 
without? Was it his accusing conscience speaking; or was it 
the voice of God demanding of him this pure young life which 
he had taken ? Wet clothes, and his long, frightful watch had 


o’er moor and fen. 


393 


not been without their effect upon him, and his reason refused 
to answer his appeal. In vain he tried to collect his scattered 
senses, in vain he endeavored to look up, and at last, relinquish- 
ing the struggle, he buried his face in his hands, and groaned 
through his chattering teeth — 

“Thou, God, knowest, and Thou only.” 

The figure stooped over him to listen, and then exclaimed : 
“ Roy ! Roy Weston ! Look up, man ! don ’t you know me? 
what is the matter with you ? ’ ’ 

“I confess! I confess!” moaned Roy. “It was I that 
killed her. Oh, my darling ! oh, my darling ! smile at me no 
more. ’ ’ 

“ He is delirious, I do believe,” muttered Arthur Leighton, 
for it was he who had come in search of him. “I wish I had 
pocketed my wrath and come before. See here, old boy, can ’t 
you get your wits together? I want you to come home with 
me, Roy.” 

“ Home? ” echoed Roy; “ my home is with my wife. Let 
me go to her,” and, starting up, he went a few paces towards 
the water. 

“That is just what I want you to do,” said Arthur; “but, 
thank God, you won’t find her in that direction. Eleanor is 
at the hotel with her mother.” 

These last words had the effect of fully arousing Roy. He 
turned about sharply, exclaiming : 

“What do you say? — Eleanor is still alive ? Don’t lie to 
me, man,” he shouted, in mad excitement, “or I’ll throttle 
you,” and, seizing Arthur by the shoulders, he shook him 
violently. 

“There! there! that will do,” said Arthur, endeavoring 
to free himself from his grasp. “Eleanor is safe, I give you 
my word. I was standing on the dock waiting for her when 


f 


394 o’er moor and fen. 

the accident occurred, and, springing at once into the water, I 
seized her as she was about to sink and carried her to shore. 
Come with me to her, now, for she is anxious about you.” 

But Roy sank back again upon his seat and covered his face 
with his hands. 

“ Safe ! safe ! ” he said ; “ oh, God, it is too much.” 

“ Come, man,” said Arthur, impatiently, “don’t sit down 
on that wet stone again. I tell you Nellie is waiting for you.” 

“Go to her,” said Roy, speaking with difficulty; “tell her 
that I am safe, Arthur, but that from this day I will never see 
her again. Tell her that I know 1 have wronged her ; tell her 
that I am not worthy to come into her presence, but for the rest 
of my life I will repent of my blind injustice and believe her 
word against the world.” 

“I am glad to hear you speak so sensibly,” said Arthur, “ es- 
pecially as I have proof in my pocket — if the water has not 
destroyed it — that Eleanor had nothing whatever to do with 
the theft of the letter. But I will take no messages, old fellow 
— you must come yourself. I was told to bring you home, and 
I must do it.” 

“ I cannot go,” said Roy. “ Neither you nor she can know 
how I would have wronged her, had it not been for the accident 
this morning. Take me home with you, Arthur, I am ill,” he 
continued, hurriedly, pressing his hand to his side, “but* do 
not trouble Nellie about her worthless husband.” 

Finding it impossible to move him in his determination, 
Arthur took a carriage and conveyed him to his lodgings, call- 
ing for a physician by the way, for Roy’s mind began once 
more to wander, and his pulse was very high. 

Having put him to bed and administered the remedies or- 
dered by the doctor, Arthur returned to Nellie, whom he found 
wandering restlessly about the hotel parlor, like a pale, dreary 
ghost. 


o’er moor and fen. 


395 


ts Have you seen him?” she exclaimed, eagerly, as he en- 
tered. “ Is he safe and well ? ” 

“Yes,” said Arthur, “I have seen him,” and, drawing her 
aside, he related how and where he had found her husband, 
and how impossible it had been to persuade him to return with 
him. “ I think he dreads your anger,” he continued. “ Will 
you come around to my rooms with me and speak to him ? ” 
“No! oh, no!” said Nellie, shrinking back; “he told me 
to keep out of his sight, and to force myself on him now, when 
he is suffering, would be ungenerous.” 

“ But I think his feelings have changed,” said Arthur. “His 
grief, when he supposed you dead, was dreadful to witness.” 

“It would have been better, then, that I had died,” said 
Nellie, sorrowfully. “ He loves Elsie, Arthur, and though, if 
dead, he might grieve for me, yet living, and in his way, he will 
hate me. No, I cannot go to him.” 

“ For the first time in your life, Nellie, you are acting self- 
ishly,” said Arthur, “and I am going to enjoy the rare pleasure 
of scolding you. No one knows better than myself the womanly 
motives which influence you, and how difficult it is for you to 
go to him, unasked, after all that has passed between you ; but 
can you not put aside these feelings for a time, forget you are 
his injured wife, and remember only that you are his best friend ? 
He is ill and needs a nurse — must I look for another to fill the 
place ? ’ ' 

“ He loves Elsie,” gasped Nellie. “Arthur, I cannot go.” 

“ Of the state of his*affections, I, of course, know nothing,” 
said Arthur, “ but if he do indeed love Elsie, then there is all 
the more reason that you should be his friend, and save him 
from himself. What can such love end in but misery, Nellie ? 
and will his wife stand by, and see his wretchedness, without 
making an effort to make him less unhappy?” 


396 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ I heard him say he had no wife,” said Nellie, with a shud- 
der. “Arthur, Arthur, don’t ask me to force myself upon 
him. ’ ’ 

“He was mad when he said that,” replied Arthur, “and 
thought that he had been- basely deceived by you ; but I have 
told him the truth now, and he is overcome by penitence and 
remorse. You will come to him, Nellie ? I know that it is 
hard,” he continued, as she made no answer, but stood irreso- 
lute before him, looking wistfully upon the ground; “it is 
almost more than human nature can endure, but you are more 
than human, dear, and the good angel which dwells within you, 
will, I am sure, lead you to your husband’s side.” 

“I will go,” said Nellie at last, hesitatingly; “but if he 
sends me from him again, Arthur, it will kill me.” 

“ He will never send you from him any more,” said Arthur, 
with a bright smile. “ I will give my word for that ; so let us 
go to him at once, poor fellow, for he stands in need of all our 
care. ’ ’ 

So Arthur led the way to the room where Roy was tossing 
restlessly, from side to side, upon his bed, and muttering in- 
coherent sentences, in which, now and then, Eleanor’s name 
could be distinguished, coupled always with some endearing 
epithet or prayer for pardon. Overcome by her emotion, 
Nellie leaned over the sick man, and pressed her lips upon his 
unconscious brow. “You did not tell me how ill he was,” 
she said, with a sob, “or I would have come before.” 

And meanwhile where was Elsie? She had fainted, from 
fatigue and fright, when Roy had left her on the shore, and on 
returning to consciousness she found herself in a house near 
the boat-landing, with a group of anxious people gathered 
round her, whilst a physician stood with his hand upon her 
heart, deciding for her the momentous question of life or 
death. 


o’er moor and fen. 


397 


A glass of wine was at once administered, and as she revived 
under its influence, she was eagerly interrogated, by those about 
her, as to her friends, and several among them offered to carry 
a message for her to the city, or back to the Island. 

She sent at once for Jack, for she had originally intended to 
stay at her mother’s house in Fifth Avenue until she had ar- 
ranged her plans for the future, but the messenger returned 
from a fruitless search after him, stating that both house and 
office were closed, and no one in the neighborhood could give 
any information in regard to the gentleman’s whereabouts. 

This was a severe blow to Elsie, and she knew not what to 
do. None of her friends were in the city at this season, and, 
apart from her disinclination to go alone to a hotel, she had 
not the necessary funds, having brought nothing with her, 
save a little change, being confident of meeting her brother 
and making him her banker. 

There was nothing to be done, therefore, but to go home 
again, that is, to Staten Island ; — her husband’s house, she must 
never see again ; so, weary, perplexed, and sick at heart, she 
turned once more to the ferry, shuddering at the sight of the 
water, and trying to erase from her mind that last terrible 
moment when they had lost sight of Nellie. 

“ Elsie,” suddenly exclaimed a voice beside her, “is it 
indeed you, alive and well?” and the next moment her hus- 
band’s arms were about her, and she was clasped to his heart, 
whilst he faltered out, in an agitated voice, “ Oh, my child, 
my dear one, I have been half mad with anguish ! I thought 
that you were lost to me forever. Thank God, thank God, 
that. I have found you at last.” 

A flood of happiness rushed over Elsie’s heart at these words, 
so expressive of his love for her, and for a moment all past woes 
were lost in present joy. It was but for a moment, however, 
34 


398 


o’er moor and fen. 


and then the recollection of her real position towards him, 
forced itself upon her, and blushing deeply, she shrank in- 
stinctively from his enfolding arms. 

At her first effort, St. Evremond released her, and they stood 
for a moment looking in silence at one another. It was the 
first time he had ever embraced her, and he feared lest she 
should be angry with him for having so far forgotten himself, 
but there was nothing written on her face save bitter and intense 
sorrow, and her eyes seemed pleading that he would be mer- 
ciful. He could not understand it, and waited anxiously for 
her to break the silence. 

She spoke at last. “How did you hear of the accident?” 
she said, endeavoring to speak calmly. 

“The news was sent over to the Island at once,” replied St. 
Evremond, “and George, who came to me with it, told me 
you had gone to the city on the ill-fated boat ; so .1 came over 
on the next one, and have been searching for you ever since. 
I would not go through this last hour’s misery,” he continued, 
“ for all that the world could give me. Come, let us go home 
at once, and endeavor to forget this unhappy scene,” and 
drawing her arm within his, he led her unresistingly on board 
the boat just starting from the pier, and a moment after she 
found herself en route for home, still under the protection she 
had that morning quitted, as she thought, forever. 

They reached Staten Island in safety, but, alas, this day’s 
troubles were not yet over, for Jack met them at the landing, 
with a sad, grave face. Mrs. Yon Decker had breathed her last, 
quietly though suddenly, that morning. 


o’er moor and fen. 


399 


CHAPTER X. 

THE BITER BITTEN. 

“ Alas, the love of woman, it is known 
To be a lovely and a fearful thing.” 

T HE next few weeks passed for Elsie like a troubled dream. 

Her mother’s death, although they had known that her 
strength was failing rapidly, was still a shock to all of them, 
and Elsie remained ^t Beechcroft some time after the funeral to 
comfort Maude, who had broken down entirely under this new 
trial. 

Jack, who t was also terribly depressed, now confided to his 
sisters the difficulties he had tried to hide during his mother’s 
illness for fear of troubling her last hours, and frankly confessed 
that more than half of their handsome property had sifted 
through his fingers. 

“ There is still left,” he said, “enough to keep Maude and 
the boys from want ; and I am going away, Elsie, to see if I 
cannot do something for myself.” 

“ Maude and the boys must come to me,” said Elsie, eagerly; 
“and you too, dear Jack, we cannot let you go away.” 

“You would not ask me to stay, Elsie,” he said, “and be 
the recipient of your husband’s bounty? No, I must go, but 
I shall be glad to think that the others have found a home with 
you. What do you say, Maudy ? ” 

“ I think it would be best for the boys to go to school,” said 
Maude; “they could pass their holidays with Elsie then, and 
she would not be burdened with them all the time ; and as for 


400 


0 ER MOOR AND FEN. 


myself, dear,” she continued, with varying color, “I have my 
own plans, and will tell you when they are arranged.” So the 
subject was dropped for the moment, and Elsie still remained 
with them. 

Of course Maude had questioned her about the missing let- 
ter, and had heard to her dismay all the trouble which had 
resulted from its discovery in Eleanor’s possession. She had 
at once determined that the truth must be told, and for this 
purpose sent for Annida to come and see her; but, although 
Annida came, she could not persuade her to see matters in the 
same light, and she indignantly refused to confess her part of 
the transaction, declaring that she had retained only a little 
note from Nellie to Elsie, as she had told^ Maude at the time, 
and knew nothing whatever about the theft of the letter. 

Maude knew that she was not speaking the truth, but she had 
no evidence against her, so she was forced either to let the 
matter drop or to state frankly that she had taken it herself, 
and she ultimately decided on the latter plan ; so, with a note 
of warning to Annida, she wrote a full confession of her fault 
to Roy and Eleanor, and appeared before Elsie one evening 
with the paper in her hand. 

“ Elsie,” she said, “my plans are settled, and I have come 
to tell you of them. I have joined the sisterhood of St. Cecilia, 
and shall take my farewell of you to-morrow. Do not look so 
horrified,” she said, with a smile, as Elsie stared at her in 
amazement; “this is only a Protestant institution established 
for benevolent purposes ; and you have confessed to me that you 
were once very near taking the veil yourself, whilst you were 
abroad, in a Catholic convent.” 

“But I was in great distress of mind,” said Elsie, “and saw 
no other way out of my troubles. It is a very serious thing, 
Maude, to renounce your home and all chance of matrimony.” 



o’er moor and fen. 


401 


* I do not think your mind could have been more troubled 
ban mine is,” said Maude, with quivering lip ; “and I am not 
renouncing my home, for it has run away from me. The boys 
will no longer need me, Jack is going away, and were I bound 
by no vows, Elsie, I should never marry.” 

“ But you will not take any such vow, Maude? ” said Elsie, 
anxiously. “ I cannot bear to think of you living so entirely 
apart from us.” 

“I will do nothing hastily, Elsie,” said Maude. “ I go to- 
morrow on trial, and if I am found to have no vocation, I shall 
be returned upon your hands; so don’t distress yourself about 
my loss too soon.” 

“ And is there nothing I can do for you, dear? ” asked Elsie, 
wistfully. 

“Yes, there is one thing,” said Maude, “and I came to 
speak to you about it. Elsie, I have been guilty of a great 
wrong, and, although I sinned more through weakness than 
intent, I am very sorry for it now, and I wish to make it known 
that I am. I suppose I ought to tell you all about it, but I am 
such a dreadful coward that I cannot ; so will you take this letter 
and give it to Mr. Leighton for me ? He asked me for it some 
time ago, but I have only just had courage to write it. Read 
it yourself, dear, only not until I have gone. Good-night ! it 
is very late, and high time your pretty eyes were shut,” and, 
stooping, she pressed more than one kiss upon her sister’s fair 
forehead before she left her, for she knew that before Elsie had 
awakened on the morrow she would be far away. 

Her confession had occasioned Maude much anguish, and it 
would have materially increased her happiness, as she left her 
home that morning, had she known that it would never meet 
either Roy’s or Nellie’s eye, which was, in fact, the case, for 
Arthur never called for it, although notified that it awaited him. 


34 


2 A 


402 


o’er moor and fen. 


Convinced in his own mind that Annida was the culprit, and 
finding Nellie could not rest until her innocence was thoroughly 
established, he “bearded the lion in his den,” and applied to 
Annida for a confession of her fault. 

Annida was at first scornful and furious, but Arthur was not 
easily daunted, when acting in Nellie’s service. He let her 
storm and rave, and weep and sigh, until her indignation had 
spent itself, and then, placing pen, ink, and paper before her, 
once more demanded a written confession. 

“You speak like a king,” she said, disdainfully. “How 
would you propose to wrest this knowledge from me, even if I 
possessed it ? ” 

“You do possess it,” said Arthur, quietly, “and I propose 
to wrest it from you by the sight of these ! ’ ’ and he drew from 
his pocket some dainty, perfumed notes, on which his own name 
was written in her delicate calligraphy. 

She started and changed color. “ Unmanly wretch ! ” she 
cried, “ to use such notes for such a purpose ! Every loving 
word within them calls you ‘ coward ! ’ ” 

Arthur winced ; her stroke went home, but he answered as 
quietly as before. 

“And every word within them,” he said, “will tell your 
husband how he has been duped. These last two notes were 
written after your engagement.” 

Annida uttered a cry and covered her face with her hands. 

“If you do not comply with my wishes,” continued Arthur, 
“I will myself place this evidence of your duplicity within his 
hands, and as you are dependent on him for your present 
grandeur, I think you will give me what I want. ’ ’ 

“I am in your power, Arthur,” she said, and all the old 
sweetness had come back to her voice. “ I must needs do that 
which you dictate, and I have no hope of mercy from you now. ’ ’ 


o’er moor and fen. 


403 


Despite himself, Arthur could not help being affected by 
the quiet despair of both tone and manner, but he crushed back 
the feeling of pity rising in his breast, and resolutely handed 
her the pen. 

She took it from his hand, without a word, and wrote as he 
dictated, even to the last syllable, and then her signature. “Is 
that all?” she said, in a dreary voice. “Are you revenged, 
Arthur Leighton ? ” 

“ Revenged ! ” exclaimed Arthur. “ Surely you do not think 
I am actuated in this matter by any desire for vengeance ? ” 

“I wronged you, God knows I did,” replied Annida. 

“And Qod is my witness that I have forgiven you,” said 
Arthur, gravely. “Despite the cause I have to hate you, 
Annida, had it been possible, I would have spared you to-day’s 
humiliation ; but I could not stand idle and see .the innocent 
suffer for the guilty.” 

“ Humiliation could have been borne from other hands than 
yours,” said Annida; “but that should force this from me, 
and through my letters, Arthur, is a retribution that I never 
looked for. I have indeed lost you forever.” 

“And did you prize me whilst you had me, Annida?” said 
Arthur. “ Did I not lavish on you love that would have 
crowned another woman’s life with happiness? and how did 
you reward me ? There are your letters, false woman ; read and 
re-read them ; see how the falsehoods glided off your pen ; how 
sweet and honeyed is the flattery within them, and tell me if it 
was any wonder that I was deceived, that I took your lies for 
gospel truth, and was willing to peril body and soul in. your 
service, miserable dolt that I was.” 

He threw the letters down before her, and turned away pant- 
ing with excitement, but he had not gone many steps before 
she was at his side. 


404 


o’er moor and fen. 


“ Arthur ! Arthur ! ” she exclaimed ; “I believe you love me 
still. Oh, if it be so, my darling, don’t try to hide it from me, 
for my heart is breaking for one kind word. If I wronged you, 
I have lived to repent it bitterly ; if I deceived you, I deceived 
myself, also, when I thought I could live without you. I can- 
not do it, Arthur, the martyrdom increases day by day. I once 
renounced you for worldly splendor, and a high position in 
society but now speak but one kind word, and I will renounce 
them both for you. Take me away with you, Arthur, and I will 
be your slave for life.” 

“Stand back!” said Arthur, fiercely, “and let me pass, 
miserable woman that you are. Is there not enough pride left 
in you, if nothing else, to save you from such degradation ? And 
what do you take me for, that you tempt me to dishonor an up- 
right man, whose only sin lies in loving you too well ? If I 
loved you, Annida Strathmore, I might shoot your husband ; 
but, betray him, never ! Stand aside ! ” 

“Arthur, I love you,” moaned Annida, raising her hands 
despairingly. 

“Your love is born too late,” said Arthur. “ Strangle it in 
its birth, and learn to love your husband.” 

He was gone, and with him the last spark of human feeling 
that yet remained in the breast of the woman who had so griev- 
ously underrated her affections and overrated her ambition. 
She turned from the room where he had left her, cold, hard, 
and cynical, and thenceforth her career was one mad scene of 
triumph and of folly. Poor Leonard learned in time to know 
the woman he had chosen, and his life became as cheerless as a 
winter’s day, so that when at last she left him, he could not but 
rejoice, although in so doing, she had made his name a by-word 
and reproach. So she drifted down the tide of life without 
guide or compass, and God help her poor soul, when it shall be 
required of her. 


o’er moor and fen. 


405 


Let us turn our eyes from this sad picture to Nellie, gentle, 
patient Nellie, watching by her truant husband’s side, with the 
tenderness of wife, friend, and mother, all in one, self-forgetting 
in her loving labor. 

It was many days before Roy returned to consciousness ; but 
when he did, the first object that his waking eyes rested upon, 
was his ill-used wife, upon her knees beside his bed, breathing 
a silent prayer for his recovery. When she saw him looking at 
her, she smiled, oh, such a tender smile, that his heart seemed 
full to bursting. 

“ Nellie ! Nellie, darling!” he whispered, for he was still 
very weak, “ Have you indeed forgiven me? How can I ever 
recompense you for your goodness ? ’ ’ and his deep, earnest love, 
once more spoke eloquently in the look cast upon her. “I have 
been mad, dear,” he continued ; “but you have exorcised the 
demon. I am all yours now, Nellie ; kiss me, and tell me you 
forgive me.” 

“No confessions, no repentant words,” she said, sealing his 
lips with a kiss of peace. “ My dearest, I know all that you 
would say, and have already blotted out the past.” 

So she met the prodigal more than half-way, and, dressing 
him in purple and fine linen, killed the fatted calf and made 
a king Of him, loving him all the more for all she had forgiven 
him; and when Arthur brought Annida’s confession, he saw 
that it was no longer needed, for their hearts once more beat in 
unison, and the line of life shone clear and bright. 


4 c6 


O ER MOOR AND FEN. 


CHAPTER XI. 


SUNRISE. 


The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers, 
And heavily in clouds brings on the day.” 


S long as there was no immediate necessity for action, 



Elsie had put off thinking of her future, but after Maude 
and the boys had gone, there seemed no further reason why 
she should remain at Beechcroft, so St, Evremond came to take 
her home, and Jack also, until he had settled the estate and 
found himself some occupation. 

Elsie hoped that her brother would decline the invitation, 
and thereby give her a few more weeks for consideration, but 
Jack accepted it, expressing much sorrow at having kept her so 
long from home, and many thanks for St. Evremond’ s kind 
offer, which, he said, would at once save him both time and 
expense, so there was nothing left for her to do but to return 
to her husband’s house. 

St. Evremond was even more kind and considerate than be- 
fore the accident, and every tender word or thoughtful act 
drove an arrow into Elsie’s heart. “If he only knew all,” 
she would say to herself, “ I should be at peace, but how can I 
ever tell him?” The time was coming, however, when she 
would repent her indecision, for every day she had some fresh 
cause to lament the effect of her duplicity upon Lorraine. She 
could not blind herself to the fact that this boy, once so frank 
and open, now constantly practised little acts of deception to- 
wards his father, and to her remonstrances he would answer 


o’er moor and fen. 


407 


sullenly,. “ You do not always tell papa the truth,” and she 
would turn away from him with burning cheeks, sick at heart, 
to think that she was, as it were, aiding and abetting the child 
in deceiving his father ; and yet, what could she say ? Could 
she deny that she had done the same ? 

Thus the days and weeks dragged on, Elsie growing more 
and more unhappy, until St. Evremond could not help but 
notice that something had gone wrong, and affectionately in- 
terrogated her as to what was the matter. The old formula of, 
“ There is nothing the matter with me,” rose to her lips, and 
the moment after she hated herself for having said it, as she 
saw a smile of triumph on the child’s face, and he whispered 
eagerly, as he bade her good-night, “You have told a lie your- 
self, Elsie ; you cannot scold me any more, ’ ’ and after that he 
became still bolder in his unlawful practices. 

Affairs could not go on this way much longer without the 
boy being completely ruined, of this Elsie was convinced, so 
she formed the wise resolution to tell St. Evremond the next 
time she found the child deceiving him, and she warned Lor- 
raine of what she should do. 

“Then I shall tell papa that you deceive him too,” said the 
boy angrily. 

“You may tell papa what you will,” said Elsie, gravely. 
“ What I have done will not make him any more lenient to 
your faults.” But judging her by himself, the child did not 
believe she would fulfil her threat. 

The test soon came. Lorraine had been positively forbidden 
by his father to go upon the river without permission, never- 
theless, he frequently crept off, unobserved, to enjoy this stolen 
pleasure, keeping Elsie in an agony until he had returned in 
safety. One afternoon, just as he was coming home from one 
of these excursions, he suddenly encountered his father, and 
Elsie, at the entrance to the grounds from the river road. 


408 


o’er moor and fen. 


“Where have you been, Lorraine? ” he asked. 

“Taking a walk, sir,” replied the boy. 

“ You have not been upon the water, I hope ? ” said St. Evre- 
mond, gravely ; and calmly, and without a blush, the boy replied, 
“ No, sir.” 

Poor Elsie ! her face became ashen white as she heard the 
deliberate lie. Her hour had come ; there was no retreating 
from her word ; if the child was to be saved, she must speak at 
once. 

“ Monsieur,” she said, struggling to control her emotion 
and speak calmly, “ I do not think Lorraine is telling you the 
truth. I am quite sure that he has been out upon the water.” 

It was done, the step was taken, and now the child’s face 
was as white as her own. 

“Lorraine!” said his father, and his voice sounded like 
distant thunder in the culprit’s ears, “have you dared to tell 
me a lie? ” 

Trembling with fright the child stood silently before them, 
unable in his terror to articulate a word. His guilt was un- 
mistakably written on his face, and after waiting a moment for 
his answer, St. Evremond placed his hand upon his shoulder, 
saying in the same deep, stern voice, “ Come with me, sir, 
and let me see if I can teach you to speak the truth.” 

“ Papa ! papa ! ” cried the frightened child, falling upon his 
knees, “oh, please don’t punish me! I will tell you all, in- 
deed I will ! I did go upon the river, papa — I did tell a lie, 
but I ’ll never, never do so again ! ” 

“ I do not think you will,” said his father, gravely, “after I 
have punished you. Get up, sir ! Disobedience is in itself a 
crime, but worse still is the cowardice which would hide behind 
a lie. You have sinned, Don’t disgrace yourself by whining 
over the retributitifa.” 


v o’er moor and fen. 


409 

There was still enough left of the young prince, whom Elsie 
had first known, to be appealed to by his father’s words; and, 
checking his sobs, the boy rose at once to his feet, nor spoke 
another word, as he followed his father to the house. 

Elsie was troubled. St. Evremond looked distressed. Lor- 
raine was in disgrace, and she could not help but blame herself 
for it all. Why had she been diverted from her original plan 
of leaving her husband, and then writing him an explanation ? 
Had she been open from the first, this trouble might not have 
occurred. She was also touched by the boy’s loyalty, for, al- 
though she had fulfilled her threat, he did not mention to his 
father her delinquencies, nor suggest the active part she had 
played in his first act of deception. Did St. Evremond know 
all, she thought, on whom would his displeasure fall most heav- 
ily? — the irresponsible child, who had wandered from the 
straight and narrow path, or the mature woman, who had set 
him the example ? Lorraine would be punished ; but, alas ! 
who most deserved the punishment ? 

“Monsieur,” she said, as, having reached. the house, St. 
Evremond turned towards his rooms with the boy, “ you will 
not be too severe with Lorraine ? ” 

“Am I ever too severe?” said he, gravely. “I trust, 
Madame, that I am always just. Lorraine is guilty of a griev- 
ous offence, and his punishment must be in accordance with it.” 

“But there is an extenuation in his case,” said Elsie, boldly, 
but with heightened color and downcast eyes, “of which you 
know nothing, Monsieur. I am more to blame than he is.” 

St. Evremond looked at her in surprise. “ I do not under- 
stand you,” he said. 

“Lorraine,” said Elsie, putting her arm around the boy, 
“we will have no more secrets from papa. Tell him every- 
thing, darling, even about the flower-pots. Monsieur,” she 
35 


4io 


o’er moor and fen. 


added, “do not punish him until you have heard his story,” 
and then she crossed the hall to her own room, where she threw 
herself into an easy chair, and, burying her face in her hands, 
tried to compose herself, and think what she should say, when 
summoned by her husband to answer the boy’s charges. 

But, although she watched and waited for hours, the summons 
never came. 

Lorraine passed her door on his way to bed, but she feared 
to call him in. The house was closed, the servants retired, and 
still no message came from the husband she had wronged, al- 
though the light, streaming into the dark hall from beneath his 
door, bore evidence that he had not gone to rest. 

She rose and undressed. Why should she watch longer? 
He would not come now. No, he would never come again. 
She had deceived, and, as he thought, betrayed him, and his 
wrongs were too great to be easily forgiven. Her hands were 
hot and feverish ; her head ached, so she loosened the heavy 
braids coiled round it, and bathed it with Eau de Cologne . 
The night was sultry, and she leaned from the window to inhale 
the fresh air. The garden was beautiful in the moonlight, but 
she saw nothing save that narrow streak of light in the dark 
hall within, and her mind kept repeating, without cessation, 
‘ ‘ What can he be doing in that silent room?” until, unable 
any longer to curb her restless anxiety, she thrust her bare feet 
into her slippers, threw around her a light muslin wrapper, and 
stole noiselessly down the hall to his door. 

She crouched upon the floor and listened. He was writing — 
she could hear the scratching of his pen, and, now and then, 
the rustle of paper. Was he writing her a farewell letter — a 
scathing, pitiless, reproachful letter, reminding her of her 
broken vows, and how faithful unto death he was? If she 
could only see him as he wrote, she should know her fate ; but 


o’er moor and fen. 


411 

the door was relentlessly closed, locked, perhaps, like his heart, 
upon the woman of whom he was now taking an eternal leave. 

What a wreck she had made of her life. It was almost beyond 
belief how she had thrown away her happiness, wasting her 
hours in idle dreams of Roy, and only learning that she loved 
her husband, when she found that she must leave him. She 
did love him, — yes, she knew it now, but of what use was the 
knowledge when he sat within, heaping just reproaches on her 
head, whilst she lay without, like a dog before its master’s door? 
She sat down on the rug, and, hiding her face in her hands, 
wept silently. 

St. Evremond paused a moment in his writing, his quick ear 
detecting something moving in the hall, but as the sound was 
not repeated, he concluded he had been mistaken, and once 
more took up his pen. 

“It would have been better,” he wrote, “had we parted 
long ago, when your heart first failed you — ” but here he 
paused again, an unwary sob penetrated the oaken door, and 
this time he knew his senses were not deceiving him. 

Slipping off his shoes that he might make no noise, he 
crossed the room, and the next moment a flood of light from 
the open door revealed as piteous a picture as eyes could well 
behold. 

“ Elsie ! ” exclaimed St. Evremond, and at the sound of his 
.voice she sprang to her feet in great confusion, blushing a rosy 
red as the consciousness of her light attire crossed her mind. 
She pulled the wrapper together at the throat, and then the 
small feet peeped out below, shining like polished ivory in their 
black velvet casings, so she hastily pulled it down again, and 
then the white throat and neck became exposed to view, so she 
ceased her efforts, and remained standing silently, and with 
downcast eyes before him, a beautiful vision of distress. 


412 


o’er moor and fen. 


“Never mind your dress,” said St. Evremond kindly, pity- 
ing her confusion, “only tell me, child, what brought you 
here ? Is anything amiss with you or the boy ? ’ ’ 

“No,” replied Elsie, falteringly, “that is, nothing that you 
do not know of,” she added, “ if Lorraine told you all.” 

“Lorraine has been perfectly open with me,” said St. Evre- 
mond, gravely ; “ and although I felt it necessary to punish him, 
I admit that there were extenuations in the case, and so I have 
forgiven him.” 

“And will you be less kind to me?” said Elsie, looking 
piteously at him. “ Oh, Monsieur, will you condemn me un- 
heard? You say that you are always just, and yet you heard 
the boy’s story, and never asked for mine ! ” 

St. Evremond was silent for a moment, and then he said 
gravely : “ If I did not send for you, Madame, it was simply 
on your own account, and to save you the pain of a con- 
fession.” 

“The pain of your displeasure is far worse,” said Elsie, 
sobbing. “Oh, Monsieur, forget for a time that I am other 
than an erring child ; treat me as you would Lorraine ; let me 
first confess my fault, and then pronounce my doom.” 

“ So be it, then,” said St. Evremond, standing aside; “ come 
in, my little girl, and I will hear all you have to say, even if it 
break my heart to do so; ” and, closing the door behind her 
as she entered, he led her to the seat of honor, his large easy 
chair. 

“ No, no,” she said, shrinking back as he would have placed 
her in it, “ that is your place, Monsieur, I will take Lorraine’s 
stool, and sit at your feet.” So he drew the stool up for her, 
and she sat down, veiling herself, like the Lady Godiva, in her 
long golden locks. 

“Monsieur,” she said, “you have reason to be angry with 
me, but not so much as you suppose.” 


o’er moor and fen. 


413 


“ I am not angry with you,” said St. Evremond ; “I am only 
hurt and grieved that you have for so long a time concealed 
this trouble from me. Child, child, why did you not trust me ? 
Do you think I do not know that love will not be guided ? The 
heart will not be a slave ; but we must watch, Elsie, that it 
does not become our master, and drive us into wrong doing.” 

“ My heart will never lead me to offend you,” said Elsie, in 
a low voice. “ Listen now whilst I make my confession. I 
will tell you nothing but the unvarnished truth, and after, you 
shall be my judge,” and she stated, as briefly as possible, the 
history of her hapless love for Roy, ending with an exact ac- 
count of what had taken place on that eventful night, of which 
Lorraine had told him merely the outline. 

St. Evremond heard her throughout in silence, and spoke not, 
even for a few moments after she had ceased. 

“ Are you very angry with me ? ” faltered Elsie. 

“ Angry!” said St. Evremond, in a deep, tender voice. 
“No, child, no; I am very sorry for you,” h^added, laying 
his hand upon her bowed head. “ Poor little Elsie, how. you 
must suffer ; and I, who would give my life to save you pain, 
can do nothing for you, although it is through me you suffer. 
I will leave you, though,” he added, in an agitated voice; “I 
will go back to France. You shall no longer be tortured by 
the daily presence of the tyrant who has bound this heavy bur- 
den on you, and cursed your bright young life. I will go, Elsie, 
and you shall remain here until death shall mercifully remove 
me from your path.” 

“You are not angry with me?” said Elsie, raising her Irtjul 
and looking at him with a gleam of joy in her eyes. “You 
trust me still, after all that I have told you, and are willing to 
go away and leave your honor in my keeping, although you 
think I love another? ” 

35 * 


414 


o’er moor and fen. 


‘I would trust though all hell rose against you,” said St. 
Evremond ; “ your nature is as pure as the angels’ in heaven ; I 
shall never have cause to blush for you, my child.” 

His voice was agitated, and in his eyes was a yearning ten- 
derness, which flooded Elsie’s heart with happiness. 

She threw herself upon her knees beside him. She seized his 
hand and kissed it passionately. ‘ 4 Then do not leave me,” she 
cried. “ Monsieur — Eugene — husband ! say that you forgive 
me, and will stay with me forever.” 

St. Evremond started and hastily withdrew his hand. “I 
must go at once,” he said, falteringly; “I should have gone 
before. Rise, Elsie, I — I — cannot bear it. ” 

“Why must you go?” she whispered, stretching her arms 
out towards him, whilst a smile hovered over her lips. “Is it 
because you hate me, Monsieur?” and “Lady Godiva ” shook 
back the golden tresses from her beautiful face, which glowed 
with uncertain, innocent love. 

“It is. because I love you,” cried St. Evremond, and the 
whole force of his pent-up feelings found vent in the words. 
“It is because I love you, and can no longer live in sight of 
paradise, with the knowledge that the gates are closed upon me. 
Oh, Elsie, my vow has been present with me night and day 
since we were married, and I have struggled — God knows how 
hard — to keep it, but my powers of endurance will go no farther ; 
I must fly your presence, or take you to my arms. I have hoped 
and hoped that the time might come when your heart would 
tmaf to me, and that then you would release me from my vow, 
bit your tale has vanquished hope; you love another, and I 
must go before I lose my honor, and your confidence. Hate 
you ? Oh, I love every hair upon this precious head — every 
dimple in this rounded arm. Back, Elsie, back ; fly before it is 
too late. Oh, I love you, I love you, my darling, and I am no 
longer master o£myself. ’ ’ 


o’er moor and fen. 


415 


He pushed his chair back, he waved her from him as though 
she were some fair demon tempting -him to sin. “ Fly, child,’ J 
he cried again, as she did not move, “fly — fly before it is too 
late ; ” but still she did not rise, only moving closer to him with 
that strange light in her eyes. 

“ I will not go,” she whispered ; “ I am your wife, Eugene ; 
you shall not drive me from you,” and the next moment she 
was locked within his arms, her fair head pillowed on his breast, 
and all the doubts and hopes and fears of love were lost in sweet 
fruition. 


CHAPTER XII. 


GOING OUT INTO THE WORLD. 


“ A little mouse sat down to spin, 

Puss came by and popped his head in.” 


OBERTA STEVENSON sat upon the floor in the old 



iv house, in the midst of a wonderful array of mysterious- 
looking packages and garments. In her hand she held a note- 
book and pencil, and as she wrote, she said: “Two, four, 
seven — that makes sevdh pairs. ’ ’ 

“I hope they are all congenial and happy ones?” said a 
voice from the window, and there sat Master Jack Von Decker, 
smoking a meerschaum, as unconcernedly as though he ha<knot 
risen to his present elevation by means of the outside trefts- 
work, and was seated on a Turkish divan instead of a very 
narrow wooden sill. 

“Good gracious, Jack! ” exclaimed Roberta; “how you do 
enjoy alarming surprises. Why didn’t you come in by the 
door?” 


4 16 


o’er moor and fen. 


“I am practising to be a house-breaker,’ ’ replied Jack; “it 
seems to be the only lucrative profession for a young man of 
my slender abilities. But don’t let me interrupt you,” he 
added, “beyond asking what you are doing. -I won’t say a 
word until you’ve completed your arithmetic lesson.” 

“I’m packing August’s clothes,” said Bob, returning to her 
work; “he is going to the seminary day after to-morrow.” 

“Whew!” said Jack; “so he is going to be a clergyman, 
after all ? Well, well ; there ’s no accounting for tastes. But 
what does he want so many clothes for ? ” 

“ Stockings, one dozen and a half,” announced Bob, writing 
down the figures. 

“Heavens and earth!” exclaimed Jack; “the ladder of 
learning must be hard to climb, when it wears out so many 
hose.” 

“Handkerchiefs, twenty-four,” continued Bob, without rais- 
ing her eyes. 

“Poor fellow! ” said Jack; “he will be obliged to cry all 
day long. What a cheerful Christian he will be. Take off a 
dozen, Bob, and call it half a day.” 

“Six blue cravats,’-’ read Bob, still bent on discharging her 
duty. 

“Six blue — ? Oh, come, now, that’s too bad,” said Jack, 
“ to make him blue both inside and out. There ’s one thing to 
be considered, though,” he continued, — “by giving him ‘the 
blues,’ you enable him to use his twenty-four pocket-handker- 
chiefs. ’ ’ 

JpJack,” said Bob, laying down her pencil and laughing 
heartily, “what will you take to go away until I have finished 
counting these clothes ? It is impossible to work whilst you sit 
there.” 

“There ’s only one thing would make me do it,” said Jack. 


o’er moor and fen. 


417 


“ And what is that ? ” asked Bob. 

“For you to come with me,” replied Jack. 

‘“I’m lonely without you, my own fair bride,’ ” 

he sang, melodiously, through his nose. 

“ But I really cannot come just now,” said Bob. “ You see, 
there is no one to do anything for poor August but myself, and 
he is going away so soon. ’ ’ 

“And there is no one at all to do anything for poor Jack,” 
said that injured individual, “and he, also, is going away very 
soon.” 

“ Where is he going? ” asked Bob, laughing. “ 4 Up a hill, 
to draw a pail of water ? * ” 

“Yes,” replied Jack, with a half sigh, “he is going up a 
very steep hill; but, if he falls, Bob, there’ll be no ‘Jill’ to 
tumble after.’ ” 

“What are you talking about?” said Bob, looking up, in 
surprise, at his serious tone. “ Are you really going away? ” 

“Yes,” he replied, “I ’m off next week to seek my fortune. 
I ’ve been settling the estate, Bob, and I find that, after all the 
obligations are paid and the property sold, there will be barely 
enough cash left to support Maude and the boys ; and your 
humble servant will be the possessor of a suit of clothes, a pair 
of boots, a meerschaum pipe, and a bull-pup, not to speak of 
his elegant exterior and polished manners. Quite a catch, am 
I not?” 

Bob made no answer. Her rosy face looked serious. The 
pencil and book had fallen to the floor, and her head was sup- 
ported by her hand. 

“Are you telling me the truth?” she said, at last; “or is 
this one of your jokes? ” 

“That’s a complimentary question, isn’t it?” said Jack, 

2 B 


418 


o’er moor and fen. 


appealing to an imaginary audience. “ I tell a girl that I ’m a 
catch, and she asks me if I ’m joking. It ’s as true as gospel, 
my dear. I’m so afraid of being married by some New York 
belle, on account of my fortune, that I ’m going clear out to 
California, to avoid the possibility.” 

“ And everything is gone,” said Bob, in a low voice. 
“ Houses, lands, horses, and all. It seems like a horrible 
nightmare.” 

“I don’t understand poetry,” said Jack, “but if you allude 
to ‘Black Bess,’ my dear, she’s in your own stable. Owing 
to the unexampled integrity of his conduct on this trying occa- 
sion, his creditors presented Mr. John Von Decker with his 
own mare, and, as he can neither carry her on his back, nor 
put her in his boot, nor smoke her in his pipe, he has gener- 
ously made the gift over to you : 

“ For the sake of Auld lang syne, my dear, 

For the sake of Auld lang syne.” 

“Jack,” said Bob, gravely, “don’t joke on such distressing 
subjects. ’ ’ 

“ Halloo ! what ’s happened to you ? ” said Jack, taking his 
pipe from his mouth and staring at her ; “ it ’s the first time I 
ever heard a fine horse called a distressing subject. Ride her, 
my child, and you ’ll discover your mistake.” 

“I’ll never get on her back,” said Bob, energetically. 
“ I ’ll never look at her, if I can help it ; she ’s all that ’s left 
to you, and you have given her to me.” 

“Not quite all,” said Jack, resuming his pipe. “I have 
myself and a bull-pup still. I had half a notion, when I first 
came over to-day, to offer you all my property ; but you did n’t 
seem alive to your advantages, so I bluffed off on the mare.” 

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Bob, 


o’er moor and fen. 419 

blushing furiously ; “ I wish you would go away, and let me 
count my clothes.” 

‘‘It won’t be half so bad to live out there as you might 
think,” continued Jack, calmly smoking and looking into space. 
“I’m going out with an insurance agency, and when I get on 
a bit in the world, I shall buy a nice little farm, and stock it 
with cows, and sheep, and horses. You can send poor * Bess ’ 
there, if she ’s still alive, and then you won’t be obliged to look 
at her any more. I ’d ask you to come and see me, but I sup- 
pose you ’ll be married by that time ; there ’s no longer any rea- 
son for you to stay at home, is there ? ’ ’ 

“No,” said Bob, sadly, “the boys are all going to school, 
and papa is to lecture through the States. I am to stay with 
Aunt Robison until he returns.” 

“You love Aunt Robison very dearly, don’t you, Bobby?” 
said Jack. 

“ I hate Aunt Robison, and you know I do,” said Bob. 

“ She ’ll be of great service to you, though*” said Jack, reflec- 
tively; “give you polish and style, and teach you to love your 
enemies.” 

“ I don’t want either polish or style,” said Bob, indignantly. 
“I ’m better off without them.” 

“Bless me,” said Jack, “that’s rank heresy. What will 
become of you in a New York ball-room ? how do you expect 
to shine? ” 

“ I don’t want to shine,” said Bob, “and there are places 
’more to my taste than a New York ball-room.” 

“California farms, for instance?” said Jack, looking at 
her out of the corner of his eye, but smoking as serenely as 
before. 

“A California farm is not so bad,” said Bob, folding a 
pocket-handkerchief, “ if one has congenial companions.” 


420 


0 ER MOOR AND FEN. 


“Companions!” repeated Jack. “Humph! that’s in the 
plural. I ’m plural too, however,” he added ; “ there ’s the bull- 
pup, you know; he counts, don’t he? ” 

Bob made no answer, but began hurriedly to throw poor 
August’s possessions into the open trunk, in hopeless confusion 

“It will be very lonely, though,” said Jack, heaving a sigh; 
“ the bull-pup isn’t much company after all. But I won’t fret ; 
perhaps I may not live to get there, you know, the journey is 
very dangerous; and even if I do, some fever will probably 
soon make an end of me. I’m not very strong, and — I’ve 
never been from home alone before. You must keep ‘ Black 
Bess ’ if I die,” he continued, “ and — and — I ’ll get somebody 
to send you the bull -pup.” 

It would be impossible to represent, upon paper, the lugubri- 
ous tone in which Jack spoke these melancholy words, but the 
effect upon Bob was dismal in the extreme. 

“ Jack,” she exclaimed, starting to her feet in excitement, 
“what do you mean by talking to me in this way? Do you 
suppose I’m a stock ora stone, and have no feelings?” and 
coming over to the window, she leaned out beside him with 
flushed cheeks and heaving breast. 

“ If you were only a stock or a stone,” said Jack, looking at 
her solemnly, “I’d put you in my pocket* and never be lonely 
any more. Or if you were a boy,” he added, “I’d say, 
‘ Strap your knapsack on your back, old fellow, and come along 
with me;’ but you’re a girl, Bobby, only a girl, and not fit to 
fight the world beside a reckless good-for-naught like me. 
No, I must go alone ! but — you ’ll write to me now and then, 
won’t you, Bobby?” 

“Not a line,” said Bob, with a curious gurgling sound in 
her throat, and a mist over her eyes ; “ not a single, solitary 
line. You shall not go, I say ; you really must not. See hare, 


o’er moor and fen. 


421 


Jack,” she went on, mounting on the sill beside him, and look- 
ing beseechingly in his face, “I’ve got some money now — I 
don’t know exactly how much, but I’ll find out and tell you — 
and I don’t want it, you know, I really don’t. So won’t you 
take it, Jack, and stay at home? Oh, do say you will.” 

Jack’s composure threatened to desert him. He puffed hard 
at his pipe, then removed it from his mouth ; winked his eyes 
vigorously, looked intently at the sparrows on the wall, and 
turning quickly, threw his arm around Bob’s waist and kissed 
her. 

“ I know I ought not to,” he said, the moment after, “ but, 
by Jove, Bobby, you ’re just a little more than any fellow can 
stand. To want to give me all your money because I ’ve been a 
fool and lost my own ! I won’t take it, dear — I really could n’t, 
and I must go away; but if you care about it, Bobby, I ’ll come 
back again when -I ’ve made my fortune. Will you try and not 
forget me till I come? ” 

“I couldn’t trust myself so far away from you,” said Bob, 
nestling closer and looking at him with a roguish smile. “I’m 
an awfully inconstant creature, you ’d better take me with 
you. ’ ’ 

“But I don’t know where I’m going to settle,” said 
Jack. 

“Then take me to choose the spot,” said Bob. 

“And I haven’t any money,” continued Jack. 

“Here’s sixpence towards the common fund,” said Bob, 
and shyly pulling out the little chain, she displayed the coin 
hanging on it. 

“ Bobby,” said Jack, giving her another kiss, “is it possible 
you *ve kept that all this time? ” 

“Don’t that fact prove I’m thrifty?” said Bob; “you’d 
better take me with you, Jacky.” 

36 


422 


0 ER MOOR AND FEN. 


And he did ; for, leaning too heavily upon the trellis- work, it 
gave way, and, losing their balance, this remarkable pair of 
lovers tumbled into the garden. 

The distance to the ground was slight, and beyond a few 
scratches from the clinging vine, they were uninjured by the 
fall. 

“This is taking me out into the world with a vengeance,” 
said Bob, laughing, as she picked herself up. 

“ We ’ve lost some more personal property,” said Jack, rising 
ruefully; “I’ve smashed my pipe.” 

“Never mind,” said Bob, consolingly, “we’ve got each 
other, Jack.” 

“And the bull-pup,” replied Jack, “ don’t forget him.” 


FINIS. 
















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